#they think you're an extension of them so they need you to step up always you should be the taking care of everything because

[loveridden1999]

people can give as much flak as they want to eldest siblings but they'll never understand how it feels to be your parent parents

[defmaybe]

J’adore

5.2k words

aespa’s Yoo Jimin/Karina x Male Reader

Prequel to Not Shy

A/N: Kind of extension to Not Shy! Also, this is my last sprint before the midterms lol, I’ll be back after that and try to write something good. Kinda rough bc there’s no beta-reading lol. Thanks for reading as always!!!

—

Spring

“You? A student council member?”

“It’s just the treasurer!”

It’s the easiest position, according to your seniors, which seems to be much, much more credible sources than Kai, the friend you got caught in a debate with.

“Just the treasurer. Mate, have you seen the lads from last year? I swear that one of them almost died.”

“I have to build my portfolio, man. You even have your dance club!” You retort, trying to grasp on something.

“Well, it’s because I like to dance.” Kai says in a mocking tone. He doesn't mean to be condescending, of course. He’s your best friend, after all. “Do you like to work with Excel?”

“I mean–”

“Board games? No, too nerdy. Cheerleader? No, too demanding. And then you fucking jumped onto the student council? I swear, man, you definitely have some kind of death wish,” he says.

You sigh, surrendering to his points. Still, you're too deep in the application process to turn back now. You look back at your phone, seeing all the completed questions in the form.

“I’m not leaving you behind, still,” Kai says, patting your back. “I’ll give you caffeine when you need it.”

Do you think you’re qualified to be a student council member?

Yes.

“I’m sending it now.”

“Good luck.”

Submit

Thank you for your submission. We will announce our selection by May 1st.

—

Summer

Maybe it was how the last year’s council members turned out to be. You were the only one who applied for the treasurer's position. Hell, even the other ones aren’t any more popular either. There was no one in the head of first aid, and they had to roll out another round of applications for that.

The fresh faces of the new student council members are all standing inside this meeting room—so determined, so passionate. Their chatters fill the room up with life.

You glance around the room. You’re familiar with some of them, walk-pasts in the hallways, sitting-fars in the classes, until one woman catches your eye.

Yoo Jimin, you’ve heard that she beat the second place applicant for president by quite a margin. Her confidence is probably what makes her so alluring to the students. Also, her face, fuck, her face, she’s the fucking epitome of perfection.

Maybe it’s the way you stare at her for just a little too long; she starts to walk towards you, and that’s when you fell into her trap for the first time.

She stops just a step away, offering you a handshake—firm, assured.

“Yoo Jimin,” she declares—stern, expressionless.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jimin.” You accept her grip, lips curling inward, letting out a minuscule smile—relaxed, reserved.

“We’ll be working together for the next year. I’m looking forward to it.” She keeps it professional in the expression she makes. There’s nothing to be made of it, except for the fact that she’s very reticent with her face.

You force out another small smile. “I’m also looking forward to it, Jimin.”

—

“Areas! I need two tables and four chairs. Parcels, get your equipment ready.”

The first meeting between the freshmen and their seniors is always the hardest to perfect. There’s the idea that the first impression defines the future of the relationship between the two. So, here you are, in your faculty’s First Meet event. You’re lucky that they let you use the air conditioners on the d-day. Those fucking run-throughs got you all melted.

You have little work to do today, having managed the proposals and preparing to do the post-production stuff. So, you’re at the core team’s table, playing whatever your old laptop can handle, until—

“Are you free?”

You look up from your screen to see the angelic figure that is Yoo Jimin standing in front of you, towering you with ease with you sitting in your seat.

“Uh–,” you can only let out a hesitation.

“I guess you’re—” she bends over the desk to see the gaming screen, before letting out a small laugh. “—free?”

“Y–Yes, Jimin.” A slight view of her cleavage can be seen with her posture, and you have to do your best to find something else to look at.

“Good. Can you help us carry a few tables?”

You look at your frail arms—should’ve done some more work at the gym. “If you want me to tear my biceps.”

Jimin chuckles, before closing on your ear, left hand pressing on your right thigh, “Don’t worry that you wouldn’t be able to jerk off, treasurer. I can do it for you.”

You freeze, not believing the words coming out of her mouth. Did she just say that? Such lewd words?

Jimin, sensing your tensed up body, pulls back from you and laughs. “Oh my god, look at you. I was just fucking with you!”

“Good grief, Jimin. You could’ve killed me,” you huff.

She shoots back a beam. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

—

Fall

The clicking sound of your keyboard and the scratches of the bills you’re arranging permeates the room this evening. Jimin is sitting on the other side of the trash-ridden table—stationeries, snack wraps—eyes unfocused as she swipes one short video after another. Her thoughts seem to be elsewhere now. Dinner? Bed? Someone? You’ll never know.

“Fucking hell, this bitch again,” she mutters under her breath, which you catch. You look up from the budget plan you’re working on, meeting her eyes.

“Sorry, Tinder stuff.”

You return her a tiny smile before going back to inputting the bills. Still, you can hear Jimin’s tossing and turning in her chair as she seems to type something into her phone, before smashing her thumb on the right side of its poor screen. You can’t help but let out a chuckle, one that she catches.

“Yeah, it’s pathetic, isn’t it?” Jimin rhetorizes, placing her phone on the table. “A student president that just can’t find any partner.”

You shrug, still typing, “Well, the work is gruelling.” And she chuckles at your statement.

“Yeah, I guess so. But it’s just, how to explain?” She furrows her eyebrows, tapping her chin to seek the right word in the air, before coming to an answer. “I just can’t find the right person, you know? Half of the line is gone once I show any bit of confidence, and the other half are, well, clingy ass bitches.”

You smile back at her, trying to give her some solace in solitude. “I’m sure you’ll find the right person soon, Jimin. You like–have the whole faculty in your hands.”

She gives you a weak smile. “You always have pleasant words for everyone, treasurer.”

You smile back before returning to your accounting work, unbeknownst to the light bulb brightening up inside her head.

“So, how’s your love life?” She asks, rising from the other side. She leans forward ever so slightly, hands supporting her frame on the white table, slightly revealing the valley of her breasts.

You break yourself from the laptop, once again, meeting her cleavage in your line of sight for a split second. It’s magnetic, but you’re able to resist it, for now.

“Hmm?”

“I mean… you don’t seem to be an awful choice for women, or men, judging from… how many months?”

“Four,” and you gulp.

“Yeah, four months with you, my treasurer. But I’ve never quite caught you being involved in anything,”—she stands up straight, before slowly striding towards your seat, hips swaying at each nifty step—“romantic.”

You clench your eyes ever so tightly at her alluring motion—the swaying hips, the crossing steps—as if there’s anything to examine but her burning lust. “Well, Jimin, I don’t think the passive mid-table guys get much,” you state.

“Is that so? Because you don’t seem to belong at the mid-table.” The distance between you two is shrinking, slowly. And with a few more small steps, you find her towering over you, chest basking in front of your face.

Jimin bends down slowly, revealing just a slight sight of her gorgeous cleavage. The poor crop top is struggling to hold her supple flesh within, even with the workshop shirt helping. You shift just slightly in your seat.

Your eyes are doing their best to resist the magnetic force, but her big brown eyes aren't a sanctuary, either.

“Thanks, miss president.”

Her Dior J’adore is enrapturing you.

“You know, I notice the perfume you wear every day, even if it’s just CK One.” She forces sultry into her perceptive words, and to say, it works. She drags her right middle finger along the length of your arm, lighting a fire in its trail.

You try to keep your composure; it works, for now. She doesn’t seem to notice the sweat hanging off your forehead yet.

“Or how you dress so damn well to class, even if it’s some fuckass subject,” Jimin continues, tracing her hands up to your forearm now.

Your breath hitches, and you can just connect the dots so easily.

“W–Why me, though, Jimin?”

“Oh, clever boy, I just need the real thing, that’s all,” she coos. Her digits are playing with the line of your collarbones now. 

“See, I’m just so fucking sick of my—well, what’s the word, devices. They’re pleasurable, sure, but unlike a real person, which in this case—is you—” Her hand grabs your chin from behind, and you can’t find any resistance. Her sonic reduces into a sensual whisper into your ear. “—they lack warmth.”

“S–So, do you want to have—”

“Sex? Yes, I want you inside me, baby. I want you body clashing against mine, while you moan my name like you’re some common whore.”

It’s haywire, your mind. You are lost in her—her voice, her face, her body, everything that’s about Jimin. Is she really inviting you to have sex with her? Is this interaction even real?

“So, what do you say, wanna go somewhere after this? Somewhere—small, somewhere—private.” Her voice dives into a whisper beside your ear, and you can feel a smile forming beside it. “I’m sure you can work on your bills—anywhere.”

You stare forward, trying to look unfazed to cover your crumbling composure.

“I–I can work on the bills anywhere, Jimin.” Your voice betrays you.

She gives a quiet laugh, “Good to know, treasurer,” before lightly grabbing your chin, with her index and middle finger resting on your lips. Are they seeking silence or entry?

Slowly, they push your upper lip ever so slightly, eliciting a whimper from you. Fuck, is she trying to—

“You know what to do, baby.”

Rejection.

Hesitation.

Submission.

You open your mouth for her—now courtesy of Yoo Jimin. You take in her fingers. They’re cold from the air conditioner. Bite. Lick. Swallow. You close your eyes while doing so, absorbing her taste with your tongue. You feel you’re under her control—so submissive. It’s ecstatic.

“God, do you like being called a whore? Because you’re acting like one right now,” Jimin asks.

You profusely nod at her statement, continuing to suck on her fingers.

“Then keep doing it, whore.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you can hear her giggle. And as your vision comes back to her, the free hand is rubbing against her clothed core now. Mewling sounds can be heard.

“God, keep sucking it, baby. I’ve never cummed as fast as this before.”

“Ngh.” And you keep sucking her fingers.

A sound of the door stops you in your tracks though.

“Guys, I need a few chairs–am I interrupting something?”

Ning Yizhuo, head of student welfare, barges into the room. She stares straight at you two. Good thing Jimin pulls her digits out and puts them behind her back before Yizhuo’s eyes catch sight of you glistening on her, leaving you stranded in your burning desire for your president.

Maybe it’s the way your eyes are still fluttering. Maybe it’s the way your mouth ever so slightly hangs open. Maybe it’s your quick breaths.

Yizhuo wants to know what’s up.

“We’re just–” Jimin tries to find the right word in your eyes. Her blinks are rapid. She’s concerned. She’s afraid.

“You’re–what?” Yizhuo isn’t a patient figure. She’s trying to gauge something out of Karina.

“I–I’m adjusting his posture! O–Our dear treasurer has a bad sitting posture and–”

“Cut the shit, Jimin. What the fuck did you guys do?”

“S–See, he’s sitting a lot, you know? B–Bills. Accounting. Excel stuff.” Jimin’s brows hint at the concern within her chuckle. She pushes the middle of your back to set you straight up. As you follow her move, Yizhuo clenches her eyes.

“Just get me some chairs and don’t fuck inside this room.”

—

Jimin swings her door open, and as expected, every single bit of it is immaculately kept clean. There’s not a single piece of trash on the floor of her white room; the table is meticulously arranged; the bed is folded. There’s a Meteora vinyl placed on her shelf. God, what a tasteful woman.

“Drop your bag.”

You comply as she also does so.

And she immediately pounces on your body, consuming your taste and scent at your nape. Her lips are wet, sending shocks through your pliant frame.

“Mmph, keep this perfume, baby. I just wanna have this scent of you every day.”

It’s CK One.

She plants her kisses along your neck—standing up straight—ever so determined to make you hers. Her hands lock your shifting, shaking body in place, despite being so eager to feel every inch of you—up and down.

“So—pliant, so—submissive,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you deflect, trying to have a hold of the battle. There’s a glint of brattiness inside you that wants to resist her just a little, just before you give in.

“Is that so?” Jimin mewls, before pushing you onto the bed.

“I’m not letting you have me that easily, miss president,” you say with your back against her soft cushion. Jimin is straddling her lean, lengthy legs over yours. She looks so damn tall from this view—you lying beneath her.

“Sucking my fingers, then decide to be a bratty bitch right now—” She lightly taps the tip of your nose, also scrunching hers. “—I like that.”

You say nothing, giving her just a wink from below.

“Oh, baby, I’ll have you scream my name so many times.”

“Fucking make me then.”

And fires ignite in her eyes.

She dives onto your left ear—nibbling, biting, swallowing, whatever she can do with her mouth without tearing your auricle off. Her deep moans send suppressed shudders through your neurons.

Jimin spreads saliva all over your ear, no sign of relenting. Slurping sounds of her flesh ring in your head. She plants each lick with purpose, and it sends jolts and jolts through your body. Still, you’re far from falling apart—tethered on the ground.

“Tsk, i–is this the best y–you can do?”

“Oh, baby, you’re already stuttering? I can do more if you want~,” she tastefully threatens. Then, she brings her right hand into play, tilting your chin up. Your mouth is right beside her neck. The pale smoothness of her skin is presented in front of you, and you just can’t help but—

“F–Fuck!” Jimin yells, clearly enraptured with the swipes of tongue you are giving her. Still, she keeps spreading her saliva on your ear as if it’s hers (it’s hers).

“Oh, b–baby boy, maybe you can use your t–tongue on other things instead,” she whines.

“Your cunt?” You keep stretching your tongue onto her nape, getting a taste of her sweat.

She pulls back from you, robbing the sensations away from your throat. “Clever, now just lie like this. I’m riding your pretty face.”

Jimin then takes off her purple lace panties, giving you a hint of her wet cunt—unshaved—as she lifts her leg, before stuffing the garment onto your nose. Fuck, her musk is so intense; you can just die happily right here.

“You just love it, don’t you?”

You sheepishly nod, pressing her panties against your nose even tighter, eliciting laughs from her sinful mouth.

“I think that’s enough, baby. I wanna fuck your face now,” she says, before tossing away the filthy garment.

Jimin then moves forward on her knees, bringing her heat closer and closer to your face. God, the fact that she’s unshaved only brings you higher. You need to slurp her juice; you need it on your face, you–

“Ready?”

Her cunt is hovering above you now, she’s pulling her skirt up, letting you see her face for the last time before being buried under her.

You nod.

And she sinks onto your face.

The first contact is soft, so, so soft. You’re practically making out with pussy, as she shakes above you erratically. There isn’t much light, with her skirt darkening your vision of what’s around, but it’s like you’d complain. You’re eating your student president out in her room, and you’re doing it so, so well that it sends shivers through her body, again and again.

“Ngh, f–fuck!” Jimin shouts from above—the things you’d do to see her face right now, to see an effect you’re having on her.

You say nothing, just keep lapping up her folds enthusiastically. Her juice drips into your mouth—sweet.

Jimin starts to grind her hips, as the moans grow louder. She’s getting wetter, and you’re still happily drinking her sugary nectar—drunk with it.

“Ah, ah, y–you’re doing well, my treasurer.”

You give her a thumbs up. You keep licking her cunt as if your life is depending on it. She moans so loud; everyone on this floor is probably going to hear that, but you don’t care anymore. The only thing in your head right now is to please Jimin—only Yoo Jimin.

And you can feel her thighs tense, shaking with pleasure. She’s going to cum. Her moans grow more chaotic and shorter than they were.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, fuck!”

She cums hard, collapsing onto the bed, cunt still on your face, ass up in the air. Her core clenches and clenches on your face, and she just forgets to breathe as her hips convulse.

“No squirt today, huh?” you joke from below.

She snaps back into the situation she’s in, sneering, “Fuck off, don’t fucking play stupid with me, wh–whore.”

You laugh, “Alright, alright, let’s get to the main course, shall we?”

“Y–Yeah.”

Jimin lifts off from you, leaving a string of her lubricant between your lips and her cunt.

“God, that’s hot,” you just can’t help but say it.

She giggles, and you can now see the sweat forming on her forehead; there’s beauty in it.

You two, in a haste, discard all of your clothes until you’re left with nothing—just bare bodies on the bed together. You’re sitting opposite of her, expecting her to say something.

She looks ethereal under the room light. The messy hair, the perfect features, the bare body, they all combine into the epitome of perfection right in front of you. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“Can I suck your tits?” you mutter. Fuck reticence, you need her, now.

She chuckles. “Sure, but only if I’m on top of you.”

“You just have to find a way to dominate me, don’t you?” you huff.

“Don’t say it like you don’t like it, baby.” She caresses your cheeks, and you shiver at her touch.

You lie down, as she slowly eclipses the light above both of you. Her large breasts are hanging down so close to your face. And—

“F–Fuck!”

You latch your mouth on her right breast as if it’s innate, with your hand kneading on the other. She lets out empyrean moans that only makes you want to suck on them even more. God, you can do this all day.

And not wanting to wait anymore, she impales her cunt with your cock, and you can only moan into her tits. This sensation, it’s overwhelming. Her velvety walls are hugging you so, so tightly. It’s so warm. She’s warm.

“Fuck,” she groans, eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Your cock is so well-bent, baby. It’s hitting my g-spot so good.”

“T–Thanks, J–Jimin.” Your mind is so damn clouded by the pleasure that you can say nothing but her name right now.

And a crack starts to form when she moves—up and down. Her unshaved cunt dragging along your digit, emanating pleasure all over your body from the core.

“B–Babe, c–can you stop s–sucking my tits?” she pleads.

You pull yourself out of her mounds, as she’s still riding you like there’s no tomorrow, and you let out small moans at each contact. “W–What? Ngh.”

“I wanna kiss you.”

You freeze under her. She’s still motioning herself to squeeze the cum out of you, whimpering each time your cock hits the hilt. Is it a confession? Does she love—

“B–Babe,” she brings you back to the mortal world.

“Y–Yeah, kiss me.”

She invades your mouth as if it wasn’t already hers at the second she sits on your face. Your tongues intertwine in a quest to declare their feelings of their owners.

Your hands are still squeezing her breasts. It’s addictive. You press and press into her flesh just to feel her as much as you can. This might as well be the only body you want to have just to yourself, as you dedicate yours to her. Every curve, every contour, every limb, you want her; you want her to want you; you need her. This kiss, fuck, it’s doing wonders to you.

She’d be the one to break off from the kiss to pant above you, hips still smashing into yours in a perfect rhythm.

“W–Wanna go out with me?” she asks.

She’s desperate, all the Tinder dates, all the–

“Babe, I–I fucking know that it’s desperate, yes or no. Fuck those Tinder dates, fuck those guys and girls, I–I want to go out with you, t–treasurer,” she pants.

Maybe it’s her J’adore that’s permeating all over you. Maybe it’s the way your hips are clashing into each other. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the glint in her eyes.

But if you have to recall, it’d be the confidence she’s radiating in clashing your flesh together just right now.

You nod.

Jimin smiles, pulling you into another kiss. You swear it can tear you apart if you have to let this woman go—figuratively.

She pulls off, her breaths becoming shorter and shorter again. “C–Can you cum with me, baby?”

Again, you nod, smiling. It’s inside your loins, building up, building up. Your body tenses up beneath her, same as hers. It’s there. It’s there.

“Fuck, baby, breed me. I’m yours, just breed me, just–ugh!”

And her whole body freezes, juices flowing onto your crotch. Her face is contorted by the pleasure coursing through her. Again, she forgets to breathe, back arching. You don’t slow down, though. Your orgasm is coming too.

“B–Babe–ah!”

It breaks. You busy yourself inside her to the hilt. Just like her, you forget to breathe. You shoot spurts of your seed deep into her womb, intending to breed her as her wish. Your cock shakes inside her, as she moans at each twitch.

It subsides, eventually. The shots get softer and softer to the point the cum just dribbles off the tip of you now. Fuck, your juices even leak out of her cunt onto your crotch, mixed together.

“F–Fuck,” is all she can say, before collapsing onto you, chest pressed up against yours.

“The plan’s still up?”

“Yeah.”

And she slips to the side, embracing you from behind, as you two doze off in the nocturne.

—

“Can I use your toothbrush?”

A long drag of uncertainty comes from the outside. Sun has risen hours ago, yet you two are still in the drowsy state.

“Or do I have to kiss you again for the answer, Jimin?”

“Put your morning breath away from me!”

At least she’s quick with her riposte.

As you brush your teeth, naked, she saunters into the bathroom, still similarly bare from last night. Her breasts bounce ever so slightly with each step in the mirror. Despite the disheveled appearance, her natural beauty shines through the mess—a seraphic being, one might say.

“Ha, yeah, I know I’m pretty, baby,” she says. “People would kill to have a body like me.”

You finish your clean up, before saying, “You’re insufferable, you know?”

Jimin laughs, before giving you a quick peck on the cheek, emanating mellow all over your face. Fuck, you can feel the blood rushing to your erection now.

“You too, babe.” She smiles, before grabbing her mouthwash for a gargling.

Your cock, again, finds the condition to rise in front of this woman. It’s twitching, and you just have to turn back before she notices it.

Still, her sharp eyes find you, and she gives you a small slap on your bare ass, sending pleasure rushing through your body.

“Hey!” she growls with the mouthwash, before quickly disposing of it. “You’re fucking hard again?”

“I–I–I–uh–”

Jimin then presses herself up against your back, arms ever so tightly trapping you from behind in a hug. It’s warm. She’s warm.

“Let me, baby,” she whispers against your wobbling right ear. “I can’t have my co-workers’ needs go unsated.”

“F–Fucking hell.”

In one careful motion, Jimin slides her arms down to your erection, right hand grabbing the length. “Wouldn’t mind some respect from my baby boy~” Her grip and the languid, careful strokes make your legs wobble.

“Tsk, n–no fucking way, J–Jimin,” you muster any inhibition you have left to deflect.

“Well, then.” Jimin then tightens her hold on your cock, transpiring both pain and pleasure to you. “How about now?”

“Nghhhh, f–fuck,” you cry out, the contorted expression appears in the mirror.

“Just like that, baby, moan for me. Show me who owns you,” Jimin coos, loosening her hold a slight, still keeping the adagio tempo.

“Nnnh, J–Jimin.”

“Good boy, good boy,” she murmurs.

She drags her filthy hand up and down your cock so leisurely, finding the rhythm for your pliancy. She strokes and strokes to build you up to the second release with her, this time by her hand.

It feels like eternity—the way her unhurried digits find the pace that would make you want so much more, or how she whispers ‘good boy’ into your ear every time she wants a whiff of reassurance of control. It’s like she needs one, anyway, judging by how you’re moaning like a bitch right now.

“God, you’re making so much sound for me.” The way she swipes her index finger at the tip of your cock on each stroke, fuck, you can fall onto the floor right here and now. “Wanna see your face in the mirror, baby?”

You turn your head leftwards to find reflections of a contorted face and a grin side by side. Her hand is diligent as ever—building you up to your inevitable release.

“What do you say, baby? Wanna see our faces in the mirror?” she inquires again. You can feel a mischievous smile beside your ear.

“Ngnh, a–alright.”

With ease, she forces your body to turn into your image of the ball of lust—the shower of kisses on your neck; the hand sliding up and down your cock; the thigh pressing up against your ass. You shift and shift within her restraint, and that seems to only fuel her fire.

“Moan some more for me, baby. I wanna hear your voice. I want my men moaning.”

You comply, letting out a series of whimpers just for your student president. The sensation of her hand is so damn enthralling—each slide, each nick of a finger, each twist of her wrist, they are all designed to make you surrender to her.

“Good boy. Your moans are so pleasing to hear, you know that?”

“Nngh, t–thanks, Jimin.”

“Wanna up the ante, baby? I can do it faster~” As if her languid tempo isn’t already doing its job in trapping you inside her overflowing lust.

You hesitate, finding yourself wanting this act to go on to such lengths, maybe even when the sun sets again. Being under her comforting warmth is too satisfying.

“I–I don’t know, Jimin.”

“Oh, this baby can’t decide? Guess I’ll just have to–”

She suddenly lets go of your length, cutting your string of desire so easily. You whine, as Jimin lets out a laugh.

“Don’t!” you say in a rush, and letting go the hand you haven’t realized you’ve been holding—hers.

Jimin giggles. “Say please, baby.” She tightens her hug on you, squeezing the plea out.

Your eyes meet hers in the mirror.

“Please, Jimin.”

“Good boy.” And she wraps her hand around your erection again, casually stroking it.

“Ngh.”

The sound of her jerking your shaft fills the room. It’s heavenly—her voluptuous chest pressing up against your arching back with right hand busy sliding on your rod. She does it so cleanly—the technique, the pace. You swear you will cum by the second she whispers another ‘good boy’ into your welcoming ears.

As if she knows your inevitable release, she seeks a higher speed on your cock, stroking it with a swiftness that tries to draw out your moan and your cum as much as she can.

“Ngh, J–Jimin,” you whimper.

“Oh, gonna cum already, baby?” Jimin giggles at your crumble, before giving a peck on your left cheek. “Go on, cum for me. Cum, just like you did last night inside me.”

White spots start to form within your vision. Your breaths become more erratic. It’s there. It’s there.

“Jimin~”

And you explode all over her mirror, painting white streaks on it. You are left with ecstasy on your face as Jimin smiles at your release. Your body shrieks and shudders in her embrace. Your cock twitches in her hand, sending flying ropes of cum everywhere. Fuck.

“Yes, baby, just like that.” Her voice is deep—so seductive.

You continue to shake in her hold, not being able to subside from your high so quickly. Your release grows lighter and lighter in her hand, until it comes out in drops, finally letting you catch your breath.

“Good boy,” Jimin says, before forcing your body towards hers. You are spun around, and she gives you a kiss.

It’s short, but it’s powerful—no tongue fighting for dominance, no slurping sounds, just a kiss.

And she pulls back from it once she’s satisfied, judging from the smile on her face.

“Wanna do this again?” she asks.

“Definitely—well—maybe. You know Yizhuo would beat our asses if she catches us again, right?”

“Just shut up, babe. She won’t know if you’re good with secrets like me.”

You pout, bringing out a laugh from her.

Winter

“It’s going well, isn’t it?” Kai asks.

You give him a small smile. “It’s bearable, yeah.”

“Good to know, good to know.” He then takes a sip of his latte from his cup, looking outside.

“Fuck, I forgot to ask you this,” you say. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Oh yeah! In fact, there’s a woman I've been seeing recently, Yizhuo. You probably know her, right? You guys are working together,” Kai answers.

“Oh,” you utter. “Oh.”

He chuckles, before continuing, “Yeah, I know it’s weird–”

“No, no, not at all, bro,” you deflect with a chuckle along with him. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

Kai, still chuckling, inquires, “How about you? It’s gotta be more than ‘bearable’ for you to be all happy like this.”

You give him a smile.

[skitzrep]

i should be doing homework right now but instead i'm thinking about dante

Here's an extension of half-angel x dante: enzo hires them for a job (warning: aura farming)

"So what's the job again?" you ask, glancing at the back of Dante's head. He always walked ahead on a job.

"Enzo said there's a demon here. A few lucky lives got away to spread the news." He didn't look back, sending alarms off in your head.

"Why are you acting weird? You've been quiet since we left the apartment." You step forward to match his step,

"I don't know what you mean." Dante smirks, nudging you off balance with his hip, causing you to stumble out of pace.

You scoff because of course he wouldn't admit he's worried again. It's your first job since he refused to let you join after the incident. He was ready to leave you behind again, but you were practically on his heels as he was leaving.

You unlatch the whip from your hip and lob it around Dante's waist, using your superhuman strength against his, to pull him to a stop.

"Oh~ Lovely," Dante murmurs smugly, allowing you to drag him closer before leaning down to give you a kiss. You welcome his lips and loving caresses before cutting it short. "What?" Dante groans, bending down for more.

"There'll be more later," you promise. So stop worrying. "We should split up to get this over with."

"Huh? Not one of your better ideas." Dante frowns. "It's safer if we stay together."

"We've split up before," you remind him, pushing against his chest. "Let's just get this over with so we can get home faster."

Dante's teeth gleam as his grin widens, pulling you against him again. "I like the sound of that-"

"Perfect," you say with a disarming smile, pinching his side to make him jump off of you. "I'll take the west side, you'll take the east. Give me the signal if you find it before me."

Dante watches you with a gloomy expression as you send him a wave before turning around the corner.

The west side of the building was quiet. Usually, you can feel a demon's sinister energy—a shiver running down the back of your neck—but so far, nothing.

And then—

It was behind you, peaking around the corner and looking at you. You stop walking and hone in on its location, sensing it's about to attack.

"Well, come on then," you call out, turning on your heel and cracking your whip. "I need you to send my man a signal."

A bird-like monster crept into view, screeching dreadfully and flexing it's claws and wings.

The demon roared at you as you flicked your whip, striking it in the face. As it was disoriented, you wrap the whip around the monster's leg.

Yanking on your leather, the demon flies foward, over your shoulder, and into the opposite wall of the hall. The building shivered from the commotion.

And there's the signal. As the demon picked itself up against the wall, you sent a barrage of strikes against its torso and limbs, keeping it discombobulated until Dante arrives.

The demon's wing folded in front of your attacks, shielding it's body. Gritting your teeth, you aim for it's open areas, but it advances with it's wing protecting it.

"Shit," you curse, leaping out of the way before it could barrel through you. Your ankle is suddenly grabbed and you're swinging in the opposite direction, bracing for the impact against the ground. You release a guttural laugh before the demon throws you up again.

Wrapping your whip around the demon's beak, you pull yourself in and land your foot into it's skull. Falling on it's shoulders, you move your weapon around it's neck and squeeze with one hand. Your other hand grabs the demon's face.

"Die, asshole!" Your hand on it's face glowed bright as the demon screamed under you. In the next second, it withered away to ash.

You were left kneeling in the ash pile, holding your side and catching your breath. Maybe Dante was right and you should have stayed together for the first job back. You were a little out of practice.

A disruptive crash rang out somewhere in the building, close to your location considering how violently the floor shook beneath her feet.

The wall down the corridor caved in, revealing Dante riding another demon through the construct.

"Hey sweetheart, look what I found on my way to you." His smile is wide until he recognizes the state you're in. "You doing alright?"

"I'm fine," you assure him, holding your hand up. "Waiting on you, slow-poke."

"I guess it's time to stop messing around," Dante tells the demon, drawing his broad sword. "My lady's waiting for me." It screams at him, but it's soon permanently silenced.

"You think there are more of them?" You ask, staggering to your feet as Dante paces over to you.

"Nah," Dante says aloof, scooping you into his arms before you could even stand straight. "They've been taken care of."

"When did you-"

"I know how to keep a fight tidy and quiet," he tells you, knocking his forehead against yours, giving you a cheeky wink. He kept you in his arms as he walked you both out of the building. "Wasn't expecting the patrol though. Your signal caught me off-guard."

With your arms wrapped around Dante's neck, you drop your head against his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe you were right."

"Me? About what?"

"We should've stayed together." You ignore how Dante tries to look down at you, but your head is too close to his neck. His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer to his body.

"We'll stick together on jobs from here on out, alright?" Dante says it with no room for discussion, not that you would argue against it. "It's a lot more fun when I can keep my eye on you anyways."

"I was going to say the same thing."

note: i have so much more tropes for this man but the half-angel sweetheart that indulges in Dante's wild/aura-farming side is so cute to me

[sabos-husband]

Hi! was hoping for a request (this might get really specific) reader as a strawhat member who grew up with luffy (by extension also ace and sabo) back in foosha village, but actually used to be a slave for the celestial dragons before she arrived there, maybe never told luffy because in her mind, luffy was the epitome of freedom and she was ashamed of her past. The scenario I had in mind for the reveal was maybe in the middle of battle, her clothes gets torn and her mark is seen, maybe some strawhats have an idea of that mark is (maybe jinbei, robin and alike) while others don't (ussop? maybe?), while making the enemies ridicule her and how the strawhats react, but you can choose another scene that you think are more fitting! i just wanted to see how you'd write luffy because i love your writing style! the way you write flows perfectly and it's never out of character, you're my current fav writer on tumblr! so thank you!

★ Around the World

Reader and Monkey D. Luffy ★

Fishman Island Spoilers!! ~ Straw Hat!Reader ~ Feminine Reader (she/her) ~ Hurt/Comfort

a/n: Aww, that's so sweet of you! I appreciate that so much! Specific asks are wonderful, it makes it easier to write something as close as possible to what you want. Thank you for the request <3 I put the majority of this between Fishman Island and Punk Hazard, but there aren't major spoilers. Sorry this took a while!

As well, there's description of the reader's history with slavery and the trauma that came from that. I left it vague for the most part, though.

For so much of your life, Luffy's been a constant. Even when you ran around Gray Terminal with Sabo and Ace, terrorizing all the people you could find for all the money you could grab, Luffy wasn't far behind for most of it. It took the Bluejam Pirates torturing Luffy for hours before his loyalty dawned on the three of you.

It then took Bluejam setting fire to Gray Terminal for you to truly consider Luffy special.

When Sabo took to the sea, swallowed by flame, you held Luffy tight as he wailed. When Ace left for the sea, aided by nothing but a burlap sack on his shoulder and the wind in his sails, Luffy had promised he would follow. When Luffy left for the sea, you were there, standing by his side. His very own first mate, meant to weather the Grand Line by his side.

You hoped with all your heart it'd stay that way. You hoped that it was all he'd know about you—you, his first mate, with nothing else of her past beyond the Grey Terminal's walls and Foosha Village's people.

Of course, nothing you want ever comes so simply.

You can still remember the shrieks of laughter that burst from Luffy as you both clambered into barrels—it made sense that he would wind up into trouble on the sea, but the first day takes the cake!

Your life has been non-stop ever since. From the very moment you both step foot on Shells Town with Koby in tow, the crew grew and grew to numbers that made your pride in Luffy bloom.

Zoro was tough with a sword and reliable when you need him, but his difficulty with directions always made your head spin. Nami was quick with her hands and quicker with her mind, just like how she could never stand to let a Berri slip by. Usopp was sharp as a tack with his constant innovations and steady sharpshooting, even when he ran at ten knots an hour away from danger. Sanji was nothing short of a first-rate chef and one of the strongest men you knew, despite how often he lost himself in the wild pursuit of women.

Then there came the Grand Line. It brought Chopper, Robin, Franky, Brook, Jinbei; thinking about the people Luffy drew to himself never failed to bring a smile to your lips. It's not like you could ever speak against them for their affection towards the captain—it's what brought you away from the safety of Foosha Village as well, skirting past the World Government you hated and feared for all your life.

It's like second nature, how much you love Luffy. Every single one of you would give anything for your captain.

"Anything" changes for you sometimes, though. Late into the night, long after the moon took its place in the sky, you wrestled with the dark. Could you keep this secret from your captain? From Luffy, the person you've known all your life?

(No, you'd remind yourself, not all your life.)

You think of the little boy you grew up alongside with, with a smile so bright you had to shield your eyes. The wind whipping his hair and threatening to carry away his straw hat as he lights up with laughter. You think of how your captain looks at you with the stars in his eyes, declaring that he will be the next King of the Pirates, and you believe him with all your heart.

Even after Ace died, his flames swallowed up in magma, you were there two years later. Luffy had gone through hell and back with you—couldn't that be enough?

It was thoughts like those that kept your secrets to yourself.

It was some foolish, childish part of you that thought you could have kept it up forever.

~

The day was as usual. It was nice, even. You had just finished helping Sanji with the groceries—to his chagrin, of course.

As much as he adores your company, he detests making such a sweet lady do manual labor for him, and he lets you know. Often. It was charming for the first while, but by the time you help Sanji put away the groceries, you're just glad it's over with.

The snack he rewards you after with, though, makes you sure that you'll help him next time. After he waves you off to begin lunch prep, you're quick to escape back to the docks.

You have some time to kill, you think. It's the last stretch until the log pose is finished setting and you've sort of lost track of the group... Thinking back, Zoro and Usopp got tied together, so you don't have to worry about searching for the poor swordsman. Nami stole Chopper to carry the clothes she was planning to get with Robin, while Brook and Franky were the ones assigned to watch the ship. That just leaves you with... Oh, seas.

There's a burst of screams that tear through the town's square, punctuated by a shriek of excited, almost maniacal laughter.

You're missing Luffy.

You're off like a shot towards the commotion before you can even think, weaving and pushing your way past the people. The crowd thickens as civilians shove past you. It's like swimming up river, but with every step you take, that familiar laughter gets closer.

When you finally burst from the mob, your feet catch on an unconscious marine. You stumble forward.

It's like breaking through a shield into a bubble—a ring of civilians gather to enclose Luffy as he's circled by marines, too duty-bound to flee but too cautious to fight.

Your captain hasn't put nearly as much thought into his approach. He barrels fists-first into the nearest hoard; the soldiers go flying like playing cards against a cannon. Sure it's charming, but he was supposed to be on board the Sunny, like, a hour ago.

So, Luffy deciding to gather the marines?

It sure isn't ideal.

Gathering your courage and tossing aside your exhaustion, you steel your nerves to storm the castle and extract your captain. And speak of the devil; Luffy whips his head around to stare at you.

"Oh! Hey!!" Luffy yells, with just a bit of manic glee. Great. You step forward—

—And a marine steps in your way. Really great.

As you fall into your fighting stance, you watch your captain dart from view. Well, whatever. You'll find him after you kick this guy's ass.

The marine wielded an odd weapon, like brass knuckles with claws soldered onto the palm. He hadn't bothered to clean the last victim's blood from it, and if the rust near the joints were to tell you anything, it was clear that he neglected to clean the blood of anyone from the weapon.

It feels like a warning.

It feels like a trophy.

Your captain rockets past him without a second thought (it's unlikely there was ever a first thought) to explode into another group of soldiers. It's like dynamite dropped in a haystack, the way navy officers go flying here and there.

The marine's eyes fall on you.

You can barely remember the fight afterwards, shamefully. You remember how it starts though.

He lunges at you with the speed of an animal, his clawed hands outstretched to sink into your flesh.

You dodge, he pivots, you aim to strike before he finds his footing—every move you make is to drive you closer to Luffy so you can cut and run.

Your mindlessness makes you sloppy. You don't even notice the way you're babying your secret, cradling it away from the fight. Of course that fucking marine notices.

Seas, you don't even know this marine's name, and yet he could still read you like a fucking book.

It's your last mistake.

When he slips to the side, too close for comfort, you jump back. His hand raises to tear out your eyes.

You raise your arms to guard, falling for the feint—the marine weaves past you, bearing his claws, and digs into your flesh.

It's over before you can even feel the pain.

You barely hold back a yell as you leap back, clutching your body. Warm blood trickles down the strike until it stained your clothes, sending panic shooting up your spine.

Like a curse from whatever gods left, that damn marine had struck you where you were weakest. There wasn't any time—by the time you whip around to clutch the wound, to hide your shame, it was too late.

"That pirate! She's... branded!"

A chorus of gasps tear through the crowd like a terrible symphony. You cling to the ribbons of your ruined attire like it could still save you.

Shadows claw at your vision as you struggle to breathe. Warm blood trickles down your limbs and your mark aches with a fresh, searing pain—it's grown with you, stretching over your skin in a reminder you can only try to forget.

You hear Robin gasp like she was struck herself. Oh seas, when did she arrive? You want to tuck yourself into a ball and hide from the prying eyes boring into your skin. You're sure she understands, if only because she shares your terror of who gave you this cross to bear, but it scares you. Somewhere, Usopp murmurs to her, "what is that?"

They know. They know.

The marine barks out in a fit of laughter, teeth bared and fingers curled around his claws. "What the hell is Straw Hat doing with government property?"

You think of Foosha Village, dodging your family and bathing in the river at night. You think of the clothes you had to give Makino back, too ridden by fear to wear them.

You think of your crew, sleeping soundly while you were working up the nerve to change your clothes in the dark. You think of Nami, with her skin graft and her new tattoo and the jealousy so strong you choke on it every time you see it. You think of how no one knows what was before that pinwheel tattoo except for the people she wants to know.

You think of your captain. You think of Luffy.

Oh seas, Luffy.

Tears cloud your eyes as you struggle to breathe. When you turn to your captain, you can barely see him—your vision swims, revealing splotches of color you'd recognize anywhere.

His haki rolls off in waves, so suffocating you can taste his rage on the back of your tongue. You see soldiers buckle and civilians collapse.

Your words escape before you can even think.

"Luffy, help...!"

A fist rockets past you. The sound of crunching bone hits you as air whips your cheeks. A mangled yell of pain is the last thing you hear from the marine.

"She doesn't," your captain growls, "belong to anybody."

~

You're brought into the medbay as soon as the Sunny left the docks. The silence is suffocating. You could barely look at Chopper as you shed your clothes, letting it slip until your shame was bare.

If you could guess, you'd bet it was nothing but professional courtesy that's keeping Chopper from reacting. That fucking mark takes up almost the entirety of the flesh, like a wound that can never heal.

The young doctor is kind when he cleans the blood. His touch hovers above your laceration when you hiss and tense. He's patient too, only continuing his work when you allow him to.

You hate this. Seas, you fucking hate this. You slump forward when Chopper continues his work.

You both pretend to not notice the tears that fall.

When he backs away, wound cleaned and bandaged, you don't turn to look him in the eye. You just turn your head and nod at Chopper.

The doctor straightens up like he always does after he works, but there's a new nervousness to him. His hooves are pressed together, like he's trying to quell the shaking. It makes you grit your teeth.

"The wound isn't bad," he says quickly, "but you'll need to rest. As for t-the rest, I couldn't..."

You nod. "Thanks, Chopper. You don't have to worry about... that. You're the best."

You watch the tension evaporate as he grins at you, leaning side to side. "That doesn't make me happy, you bastard!" He giggles, spinning. He sways a bit longer before he tamps it down, clearing his throat.

"But," he says clearly, "you can talk about it—"

"—Chopper—" you try to say.

"—Listen! It's important!" Chopper stands straighter like it'll give him the confidence his next words demand. "I-If you don't want to talk about it to me, it's okay. But... you should talk to someone. Nami, or Robin, or maybe- maybe if we call Jinbei, he would understand—"

"Chopper," you cut through. It hurts your heart to see the young doctor wilt. "It's okay. Thank you, but I'm alright."

"Okay... But- consider it? Please?"

You look away. "I will," you murmur.

Even though you don't see his face, you know Chopper knows you're lying. You know he won't push you farther, though. He hops down off his stool, shucks off his doctor's coat, and offers you the spare clothes Nami had lent you. She was kind enough to waive the fee this time too. You can't find it in you to appreciate it.

Chopper turns away as you get dressed again, which makes you smile. It makes you feel like you have some control again.

(You can't help but study your bandages. They're wrapped snug around you, but the edges of the brand sticks out like a hand print seared into your skin. You can still see the three pointed claws under the stark white of gauze.

It's the first time in a while you've really observed it. Every other time you forced yourself to look, all you could see was the red-hot brand and the wicked smiles of the demons who held it.

It's just as ugly as you remember.

You wish you had killed that marine, even if it wouldn't have changed anything.)

When you finish getting dressed, you signal to Chopper. He turns around, offers you a smile too bittersweet for someone of his youth, and reaches for the door.

"Oh, Luffy," Chopper comments idly. You can't stop how you flinch at the sound of his name.

You were dreading seeing him. It makes you want to cry again; how long has it been since you've dreaded being near Luffy?

The ringing in your ears swallow up the gentle words Chopper offers. Your bandages crush your ribs as you try to breathe—there isn't enough air, like that fucking marine took it all when he- when he—

The hands on your face smell like sun-warmed rubber. It's hard to say they're cradling your face, when Luffy just smacked his palms against your cheeks and squished them together until you were looking at him. When you blink, he blinks back at you.

"Are you there?" Luffy asks simply.

"Um, y-yes Captain," you force out. He nods thoughtfully.

Though, Captain isn't the right moniker. You aren't talking to isn't Captain Monkey D. Luffy, world-renowned Worst Generation pirate, capable of toppling kingdoms and challenging the World Government, feared by the powerful and adored by the powerless.

No, the boy in front of you is simply Luffy. The Luffy you've cherished since you were small, with a smile so bright and a heart so full—for all your life, you've never known how you got so lucky to have him.

Luffy pushes you to sit before he flops down next to you, bobbing with the mattress springing under his weight. You avoid his eye.

"You have something," Luffy states simply. It isn't a question, nor an accusation. It makes you flinch regardless—through all your tears, you can barely see the way your hands ball into fists in your lap.

He waits until you can find your words once again. It's kinder than you deserve.

"D-Do you- want to see it?"

"I don't care." Luffy just sort of... tilts his head at you. "I want to see you."

It's such a simple sentiment. It makes you feel like you've swallowed a thousand blades.

"I'm-... I didn't- I'm sorry, Luffy," you force out. The nails you dig into the stark white gauze don't put any pressure into the skin below it. Luffy frowns anyways.

"You can't apologize," he states simply. "You don't have to."

"But I- I lied—"

"It's okay." Luffy kicks his feet out. "I know you. I don't care about the rest."

All your words slip from your mind. If Luffy minds the silence, he doesn't show it.

Shame floods your chest. All these years hiding your past, unraveled just like that. You stare at your lap.

"They," you admit softly, "had me for so long. I- I never thought I'd be free."

He doesn't respond. You don't need him to—the words rush out before you can think. You stare into your open hands.

"W-When I escaped, I promised myself something. I said, they'll never control me ever again. But- I just... I've always been so scared! It's like- It's like I never even left—"

"Sabo is dead," Luffy says suddenly. "Ace is dead."

When Luffy looks forward, it isn't at Chopper's desk. It isn't at the medicine scattered along its surface, nor is it the kit the doctor had used to patch up your wounds. No—Luffy's gaze pierces farther, looking past the desk and the ship and the sea.

When Luffy looks forward, it's into the fire he left behind.

"But you aren't. You escaped. You're here with me."

Even without words, you understand. You can see the fire, too. "I am."

"You're not theirs anymore. You're mine," Luffy says just as suddenly, "but you aren't mine."

You don't respond. You wouldn't know how even if you tried.

Luffy turns to you with the same inferno that swallowed up your shared home. "You're my crew. You're my first mate. But I don't own you. No one does. That brand doesn't mean anything."

Before you can gather your thoughts, you feel Luffy's hand press his straw hat into your lap. It feels as warm as the sun he had been standing in just moments before. Luffy grabs at your hands to wrap them around its brim.

"You don't belong to anybody."

You could cry.

Luffy shakes your shared hold. "Say it."

"I-I..." You sniffle, "I don't..."

Luffy's eyes don't look away from you. They aren't mean, nor are they worried—they're fierce, just as sure of your power as they were the day he met you.

"I don't," you say finally, "belong to anybody."

When you collapse into his arms, shaking with every sob that wracks through your body, there is no shame when his hands brush over your mark. All you feel is warmth as he pulls you tighter.

You're not property. You're free.

You're a pirate—and no one is freer than a pirate.

[bi-writes]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yokai Harem x Reader (III)

On your travels with the two demon companions, you stumble upon a fortified village plagued by monster attacks. It would be quite unlucky if the grand finale happened just as you step foot inside, right? Worry not, you're saved by a third mysterious yokai that you immediately recognize. The harem grows!

Content: female reader, monsters, violence

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Character Guide]

“Alright, how’s this?”

You do a clumsy pirouette before the two yokai men.

“That’s...are you sure?” Kiritsubo eyes you, mildly confused. “It’s usually what men wear.”

Of course, you already know. After weeks of walking through feudal Japan, you’ve reached the conclusion that modern clothing isn’t the most practical choice. Not to mention the strange looks you always get from other people upon your arrival in any village. You needed something to blend in, and the typical fashion for your gender might not be compatible with your training. You’d rather not swing a sword while covered in multiple layers of kimono.

Thus, you opted for the hakama pants typically worn by men. With your hair tied up and in this baggy attire, one could think you’re a young samurai. If they squint enough. You chuckle at the thought.

“She’ll wear whatever allows her to not be a burden.” Murasaki concludes with crossed arms.

One way to put it, you tell yourself.

“If you’re done discussing fashion, we can leave.” The dark-haired man continues with indifference, standing up and adjusting the swords in the folds of his sash.

Both you and Kiritsubo hurry and follow behind obediently.

“Where are we going this time?” You ask sheepishly.

“South-west. An old residence of his, although we will have to pass through a fortified settlement first. We should reach it before sunset.”

It’s hard to imagine you’re the supposed savior in this equation. Murasaki has been leading you by the hand each step, carefully considering every detail on the map, and extensively planning your travels every evening. All this on top of your daily training. You’ve now mastered the basics with the katana he’s provided you, as well as some common prayers for exorcising small-class demons.

You glance at the daisho pair of swords under his belt. A long, thin blade, and a shorter backup version, both in elaborate matching scabbards meant to showcase the status and wealth of the samurai wearing them. In this case, meant to express his rank as the advisor and right hand of the famed onmyōji. You certainly don’t doubt Nakamaro’s decision to rely on Murasaki.

In comparison, Kiritsubo carries a nagamaki at his waist. A comically long blade in your opinion, used mostly to bring down horses during battle. Any regular sword would’ve been too small for him. Despite his imposing appearance, you’ve learned rather quickly just how different Kiritsubo is from the other yokai. He’s quite clumsy in combat, often anxious about making mistakes, terribly apologetic, and overall has a heart too kind for his own good. If there’s hesitation coming from his side, Murasaki immediately follows with his ruthless, ending blows. As a matter of fact, even you’ve had to do the occasional killing to spare the man of such choices.

The silver-haired demon notices your eyes on him and smiles, excited. He reminds you of a large dog. A horned, fanged dog of monstrous strength, nonetheless the innocence is there. And he does make a great travel companion.

“How much longer?” You grunt, looking up.

“Are you tired? I can carry you for the rest of the way-” Kiritsubo instantly offers but is interrupted by Murasaki’s barked orders.

“She can walk. Don’t spoil her.” He glares at you, then nods ahead. “We’re almost there, so quit your whining.”

True to his word, you can finally discern the outline of a wall at the top of the hill. A few more steps, and you can even spot two guards standing beside the great gate.

“Stop there!”

The soldiers lift their spears threateningly. Before you can react, Murasaki steps in front of you with a hand placed on his sword.

“We’re just passing through.” He states factually.

“We’re no longer allowing visitors.” One of the guards exclaims. “The village has been raided by monsters recently and our Lord has closed all gates until the matter is solved.”

“That means no filthy demons go in.” The other adds in a mocking tone, his gaze lingering on the horns of your companions. His mouth curls in disgust.

You can tell Murasaki is angered by the disrespectful approach. He is not one to let such insults slide and you’d rather avoid him claiming unnecessary victims; therefore, you push past his arm and plant yourself ahead with a polite greeting bow.

“These yokai are with me. I vouch for their good behavior, so please consider letting us through. Perhaps we can even help you with these monsters.”

“You? How would you…”

The man stops abruptly, switching between you and the yokai. Eventually he inspects your scabbard, and he gasps, confusion twisting his features.

“Could it be? No…He’d be dead by now.”

“What are you talking about?” His partner inquires impatiently.

“That’s the family seal belonging to Abe no Nakamaro.” He explains, pointing to the golden finish at the end of your katana handle. “I’ve heard about him from my grandparents. But it’s been decades!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re saying this kid is a legendary onmyōji?”

“Who else would show up with demons as servants? Everything matches. Perhaps his powers have finally reached immortality”, he concludes solemnly.

The men continue their argument, and you clear your throat, embarrassed. What the hell? You can’t possibly look that manly. Sure, you’ve been skipping the makeup, and the clothes aren’t exactly curve shaping, but to be mistaken for an old man is like a slap to the face.

You’re about to deny their claims, but Murasaki swiftly pinches the back of your neck, and you wince. He lowers himself to your ear and whispers:

“This will be to our advantage. Just go along with it.” “Fine!” You mumble angrily. Then you turn back to the guards.

“V-very well, I see I haven’t been forgotten.” You admit, theatrically. “Lead me to your Lord and we shall discuss the details of your monster attack.”

Thus, you sip on your tea, kneeling at the luxurious table and awaiting the arrival of the feudal Lord. The servants are exchanging words, gossiping fervently next to the wall. “I wonder if he can cure my daughter!” one woman mumbles, visibly emotional.

“Do you think we can finally be saved? He’ll truly exorcise the beasts tormenting our village?” another whispers.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead and glare at Murasaki. You had no idea he’d given you Nakamaro’s old sword. Now you’re stuck pretending to be a pompous, long-dead asshat.

“What if they catch us?” You hiss between your teeth. “I don’t know shit about onmyōdō.”

“Then I’ll just kill them all. Simple as that.” The crimson-eyed man retorts, unconcerned. “Have a little fun, won’t you?”

“W-we’ll help you come up with answers, (Y/N). Don’t worry.” Kiritsubo chimes in, trying to reassure you.

You sigh in frustration and look out the window. The sun must’ve set a long time ago and has since been replaced by a pitch-black sky. What’s keeping the Lord? Surely, he can’t be having important business meetings late at night.

Almost as if your thoughts were read, the door slides open and a servant wobbles in. The rest of the household workers are silent, expecting the entrance of their master, but no one is following behind. You observe the bizarre limp of the woman. Suddenly, she collapses to the floor, revealing her bloodied back torn by deep wounds, caused by some sort of claw. Her body is stiff.

Panic settles in right away, and the servants topple over each other to get away from the fresh cadaver. You struggle to get up among the terrified crowd, but thankfully Murasaki grabs your wrist and pulls you out into a quieter hallway.

“What the hell?” is all you manage to say.

“Rotten.” Kiritsubo furrows his brows, sniffing the air. “Someone in here must be possessed. Could be more of them.”

Murasaki surveys the surroundings and gestures towards his partner.

“We have to see if the Lord is still alive. You go that way. I’ll take the front. Kill everyone suspicious.”

“What about me?” You demand, holding your breath.

“Get out and wait for us. You know how to draw a protection circle, don’t you? I won’t take long.” The dark-haired yokai answers before vanishing.

Judging by the screams and wails coming from all directions, you suspect Kiritsubo is right about multiple attackers. You sprint across the hall, looking for an opening. The self-defense lessons didn’t cover cursed humans with demonic powers. You’ll stay out of this one.

What an absolute mess. You have encountered some demons in your weeks spent here, but nothing to this degree. When the guards mentioned a monster attack, you imagined a ghost with a grudge, or some small fry yokai scaring the workers at night, not a mass curse that ends in a massacre. Of course, it had to happen the moment you arrived at the main house.

You find a room with a door leading to the inner courtyard. Seems isolated enough and it should provide a bit of shelter while you wait for the pair to finish the business. As you rush past the dead bodies, you notice a woman hiding behind a screen divider.

“Ah! It’s you!” she yells, aware of your presence.

From the shadow of her secret spot emerges the small frame of a child. The woman pushes the little human towards you, blocking your path.

“Don’t worry, he’ll protect us.” she gives her child another nudge. “Go on, hold onto him. You’ll be safe.”

What? No, no, no, no, no. Not happening. You’re getting out.

“Ma’am, sorry to break it to you under such circumstances, but I’m not-”

You’re interrupted by a loud growl. One of the possessed creatures must’ve followed your scent, and it’s now sliding into the room on all fours with the bones of the limbs twisting and creaking in unnatural pounces. You purse your lips in a frightened grimace. One advantage of the wide hakama pants – useful to know – is that no one can see your knees shaking cowardly.

Theoretically, you could use the brat as bait and run for your life. It’d make a decent obstacle. Unfortunately for your life span, you’ve been gifted with an idiotic sense of duty instead of survival instincts.

“Keep your distance. If I can’t kill it, get out and don’t look back” you advise, positioning yourself in the learned stance and sliding the sword out of its sheath.

Damn it! Then again, it should be like fighting a zombie, right? Given the pathetic way it drags itself around, it can’t be too difficult to hit. Aim for the head, you repeat in your mind. Your fingers grip around the handle.

The ghoulish beast lowers itself, like a spring about to recoil, and leaps across the room with an ease you did not anticipate. Despite your iron hold, it slaps the blade out of your hands with enormous force. The impact breaks your skin, and you wince. There’s no time to weep, within seconds it could go for your vitals next. While Murasaki hasn’t gotten around to teaching you much hand-to-hand combat, you’ve read your fair share of shounen manga. The first idea that comes to mind is to put the beast in a sumo lock. You bend your knees smoothly and wrap your arms around the monster, feeling for something to hold onto. You grit your teeth and attempt to lift the creature.

A thundering laugh resonates within the walls, and you jolt, startled.

“I never thought I’d see the mighty Abe no Nakamaro wrestling with ankle biters like this. What are you going to do, throw it out of the ring?”

The voice is deep, loud, and unfamiliar. You can’t afford to look back to see the source, but it’s not hard to figure out the possibilities. So far, you’ve only been called by that cursed name by the yokai accomplices. Although now is not the best time to seek revenge.

“Shut up, I panicked”, you snap in frustration. “If you can’t help, keep that trap closed!”

The sudden burst of anger seems to have triggered something within your body, a power you don’t recognize. You watch as your arms effortlessly pick up the monster and swing it across the room, its body demolishing the opposing wall and causing thick clouds of dust to rise and spread everywhere.

The impact must’ve alerted the nearby ghouls, as you can now hear the agitated trample and screeching rapidly approaching. You’re not confident you can pull the same lucky move a second time.

You turn to search for your sword, but it’s already being handed to you by the mysterious yokai who’s been observing your little fight. You have to step aside and tilt your head all the way back in order to fully view the gigantic frame of the man.

Ah, you recognize the features immediately. The same kind of fear you felt when you stumbled upon that old shrine statue is now tugging at your chest.

“You’re Suma, right?”

A proud, wide grin forms on his face, revealing a pair of glistening fangs. His expression is unexpectedly soft and friendly.

“We’re halfway through our introductions then, eh?” You pick up the sword and his fingers stretch out for a handshake. “What is your given name? I’m guessing you don’t willingly go by that…title.”

“I very much prefer (Y/N), yes.” You marvel at the significant difference in size, placing your small hand in his. “Was that your power I just used?”

“Mhhm. You sure surprised me there! It’s not something I did intentionally, but I s’ppose we just resonate that well, huh?”

He laughs again, completely unbothered by the impending danger.

“Alright, you can leave the rest to me. Take the lady outside, it will get a little messy.”

And with that, he casually walks towards the gathering of ghouls. You guide the family to the courtyard and wait for the battle to end.

“Do you think she’ll be fine by herself?” Kiritsubo is resting against the fence, keeping you under a watchful gaze.

“Let the humans sort it out among themselves.” Murasaki responds, somewhat bored.

The morning after the attack, you offered to deal with the survivors: ask them how everything started, if they’d noticed anything suspicious days prior to the event, and if the route to Nakamaro’s old residence was still open. The yokai men had found the feudal Lord in the jaws of a possessed creature and he quickly succumbed to his wounds. Consequently, only the remaining servants could provide them with clues.

A village being targeted like this is highly unusual, and Murasaki can’t shake the feeling it could be related to their master.

“Oh, where are you heading after this?” The silver-haired yokai glances at Suma, sitting lazily next to them.

“Where? After you just told me the whole story? I’m way too invested in this modern reincarnation that just popped out of nowhere, so I’m tagging along!” He announces with a chuckle.

Murasaki frowns.

“We don’t need your help.”

“Don’t be like that.” The giant man pouts dramatically. “Are you upset I saved (Y/N) before you?”

“W-we were on our way!” Kiritsubo retorts, visibly bothered.

“It’s a done deal!” Suma rests his hands under his head and yawns. “Besides, the little human already said he doesn’t mind.”

“He? (Y/N) is a woman.”

The redhead abruptly sits up and gasps.  

“Wait, what?”

“Don’t get funny ideas, man”, the silver-haired demon warns.

[girlkisser13]

lover

"can i go where you go?" "can we always be this close?" "forever and ever"

pairings: mark sloan x fem!reader

warnings/tags: none. tooth rotting fluff.

summary: mark has something special planned for your three year anniversary.

the hospital buzzed with the usual mix of organized chaos, but something felt different today. you could feel it in the air— a charge, a sense of anticipation that had nothing to do with the day's surgeries or patient charts. it was your three-year anniversary with mark, and while you tried to keep your expectations grounded, there was a part of you that couldn't help but wonder if today would be the day he asked you the question you'd been dreaming of.

mark had been acting strange all morning, and your suspicion only grew when you found him in the locker room with derek and jackson, who hastily shoved something behind his back as you approached.

"hey, what are you guys up to?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at mark. you knew him too well to miss the guilty look that flashed across his face.

"nothing," mark replied, his tone overly casual, which immediately set off alarms in your mind. "why would you think we're up to something?"

you crossed your arms, leaning against the locker. "you're terrible at lying, you know that, right?"

jackson smirked, clearly amused by mark's struggle. "i'm gonna... head out," he said, giving mark a knowing look before slipping past you.

"yeah, me too," derek added, giving mark a pat on the back as he followed jackson out of the room.

now alone with mark, you raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to crack. "mark, what's going on?"

"nothing," he repeated, this time with a bit more emphasis. he was trying too hard to sound nonchalant, and it only made you more suspicious.

"uh-huh," you said, not buying it for a second. "are you sure there's nothing you're hiding from me?"

mark leaned in, his face close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. "nope. Not hiding anything," he said in that exaggerated tone that made it clear he was hiding something.

you opened your mouth to question him further, but before you could get another word out, he was already walking away. "mark!" you called after him, but he just flashed you a grin over his shoulder and quickened his pace.

with a sigh, you started to follow him, determined to get to the bottom of whatever he was up to, but then your pager went off. you glanced at it, seeing derek's name and a priority code that made your heart skip a beat.

you hurried to the nearest phone and dialed derek's extension. "derek, what's going on? is everything okay?"

there was a pause on the other end of the line, and then derek's voice came through, sounding suspiciously amused. "yeah, everything's fine. i just need your help with something."

"really?" you said, skepticism lacing your tone. "this couldn't wait?"

"nope," derek replied. "it's urgent. meet me on the fifth floor, near the ors."

with an exasperated sigh, you hung up and headed toward the elevators. the fifth floor was bustling with activity as usual, and as you turned the corner, you saw derek standing by the nurses' station, looking far too pleased with himself.

"okay, i'm here," you said, slightly out of breath. "what's so urgent?"

derek smiled and gestured for you to step closer. "look down," he said.

you frowned, confused, but did as he asked. and that's when you saw them—a trail of rose petals scattered on the floor, leading away from the nurses' station and down the hallway.

your heart started to race as you looked back at derek. "what's going on?"

he simply grinned. "follow the petals."

you hesitated for a second before following the trail. the petals led you down the hallway, around a corner, and to the door of the hospital lounge. your breath caught in your throat as you slowly pushed the door open.

inside, the lights were dimmed, casting a soft, romantic glow over the room. more rose petals were scattered across the floor, and there were candles flickering on every available surface. the scent of roses filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

and there, standing in the middle of it all, was mark.

he turned as you entered, a smile spreading across his face. "hi," he said, his voice warm and inviting.

"hi," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you take in the scene around you. "what... what is all of this?"

mark took a step closer, his eyes locking onto yours. "do you remember this place?"

"of course," you replied, sarcasm dripping from your voice. "we come here to make coffee and change before work. so romantic."

mark let out a laugh, the sound warm and genuine, and shook his head. "okay, fair point. but it's more than that." he smiled, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. "this is also where we first met."

you blinked, your mind racing back to that moment three years ago. you'd been in a rush, fumbling with your coffee mug and trying to pull your scrub top over your head when mark had walked in. he'd made some cheeky comment about your lack of coordination, and you'd shot back with something sarcastic. it had been a fleeting encounter, but it had sparked something between you—a connection that had only grown stronger with time.

mark's voice pulled you back to the present. "you were definitely checking me out," he teased, his grin widening.

you laughed, the sound filled with affection. "i was not!"

he chuckled, reaching out to take your hand in his. "don’t deny it, babe." you rolled your eyes as he winked at you. "as soon as i saw you, i knew that you would change my life forever. i'd follow you anywhere."

your heart fluttered at his words, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "mark..."

he squeezed your hand, his gaze never leaving yours. "after that day, i knew that i always wanted to be close to you. i always want to be where you are."

before you could respond, he let go of your hand and reached into the pocket of his doctor's coat. your breath caught in your throat as he pulled out a small velvet box.

"mark," you gasped, your voice trembling as he slowly got down on one knee.

he opened the box, revealing a stunning engagement ring that sparkled in the dim light. "i would follow you to the ends of the earth if it meant i could always be near you," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "i've loved you for three years now, y/n. but now, i want all of your years. i want to spend the rest of my life with you. every day, every moment— i want it all. y/n y/l/n, will you marry me?"

for a moment, you were too overwhelmed to speak, your heart pounding in your chest. but then, with tears streaming down your cheeks, you managed to nod. "yes," you whispered. "yes, i'll marry you."

mark's face lit up with joy as he slid the ring onto your finger. he stood up, pulling you into his arms and kissing you deeply, as if trying to pour every ounce of his love into that one moment.

when you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. "i love you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"i love you too," he replied, his voice just as tender. more than you'll ever know."

the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the world outside the lounge fading away. in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing at the beginning of forever.

[thethronezone]

High Consort Pt. 3

Like mentioned in previous parts, you have a Custodi bodyguard. But you also have a whole guard of Custodes assigned to guard you, on orders of the Emperor of course. Your Custodi bodyguard just so happens to be the captain of this guard and the one that's always directly by your side. Because of this, you are quite close. So what if they work for your husband? So does every other bitch in the Imperium!

Whenever the Emperor leaves for the Great Crusade, it's up to you and Malcador to hold down the fort and make sure that everyone stay in line, both on Terra and beyond. You especially are seen as an extension of the Emperor and his will. This means a lot of public appearances on your part, with you flanked by your personal guard. Your presence reminds people that while the Emperor may be off planet and busy elsewhere, he is still aware of everything that's going on.

Because of this, you rarely leave Terra, or at least the star system. You might visit Luna or Mars every now and then but it's very rare that you venture to another part of the galaxy. You are needed where you are, providing a sense of stability in the heart of the Imperium.

Some people (mostly nobles) believe that, just cause you're not an incredibly buff, 4 meter tall, armored super-psyker that you are for some reason easier deal with, easier to push around. WRONG. You are both equally as terrible, sorry not sorry. The Emperor is unapproachable and straight up railroads every conversation while you just don't give a shit. You are older than most noble's bloodlines, at some point their rules just stop applying to you. The one big difference between you and Big E is that you at least try to act like a normal person, he doesn't, so people just find it easier to approach you.

There's also a belief that since you are HIGH Consort, that the Emperor is open to getting more consorts/concubines. At first this assumption was funny, the two of you had a good laugh about it. Then people kept trying to marry off their family members to him, accosting him at events, sending letters and some downright begging on their knees for him to accept one of their sons of daughters. Then only you were laughing. And Malcador, of course. He also found it all very funny.

Sometimes, when people want something from the Emperor or want to meet him, they try to get through you first. Butter you up so that you will put in a few good words for them to your husband. You might humor them for a short while, pretending to be as shallow as they appear to think you are, but the moment they no longer amuse you or step out of line you'll give your Custodi bodyguard a look that they know well. It means "I am tired of their chatter, remove them from my presence and if they ever try to approach me again, don't let them." You might be immortal but you won't waste your time on people you don't like.

A family can be a super-human psyker, his consort, their unmarried friend, their 10 000 strong personal army, their 20 18 super-human children and their respective super-soldier legions.

Half the Primarchs look at your and the Emperor's marriage and go "aww, so that's what true love looks like" and the other half goes "why haven't you DIVORCED this man yet?" Mortarion, Angron, and Perturabo full on believe you have Stockholm Syndrome or something.

Meanwhile, Lorgar, Horus and Lion think this is the perfect marriage, like, this is what everyone should strive for. Lorgar has written sermons about it and called it the "most divine and holy union in the galaxy". Would threaten to crucify himself if you and the Emperor ever separated. His legion would join him in solidarity. This is a hostage situation.

[entitled-fangirl]

His carefully crafted web.

Will Graham x Graham!reader x Hannibal Lecter

Summary: Hannibal wants both the Grahams to himself. He begins to spin his web of lies to get them crawling right to him.

Warning: Manipulation and gaslighting!!

Author's note: You can't look at this gif and be like "That's platonic love." LOOK AT IT! Also- I wanna write just a Hannibal x reader but my mind is blanking so hard.

Masterlist

........................................................

Jack Crawford led the Grahams to the crime scene, letting their eyes wander over the dead body in front of them. 

Neither were easily mortified at vicious killings anymore.

After all, she was their head biologist, and Will was their reconstruction specialist. 

But the dead body in front of them sent a small shiver down the woman's spine.

Will noticed and placed a gentle hand on her back. "You alright?"

She nods, "M'fine."

Jack nods at the two, "Do your thing, Will." And he walks out of the house, leaving the two Grahams alone.

Y/N bends down to the body, "This girl drowned on her own blood. That gives you something to go off of." She stands and gives her husband a sweet kiss on the cheek, "I'll be just outside."

He reaches out and grabs her hand, "Stay?"

Her eyebrows furrow, "I thought you do this best alone?"

"I do, but you help me think. Just… you being near helps me. It… brings me back to reality when I get too lost. Just promise me you'll stay?"

She was at a loss for words, "I… yes… of course."

He nods and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths.

…

"You said that to her?" Hannibal asks Will.

"Yeah, and I meant it too. I've been so worried about not coming out of the daze. She… she keeps me away from making my own design."

"And what happens when she can't help you anymore?"

Will sits up, "what do you mean?"

Hannibal blinks, "There may come a day that she can't help you anymore. What if you hurt her?"

Will loses color in his face, "No, I wouldn't do that."

The doctor shrugs, "How do you know?"

"I just won't." He looks up unsure, "Hannibal, that won't happen, right?"

Hannibal sighs, "I can't guarantee it, Will. You and I both know that."

Will sits back and runs a hand over his face. How could he be so stupid to not think about that? What if he wakes up from his daze to be covered in her blood?

He doesn't think he'd be able to live.

"Just promise me, Will. If something happens, anything, that you'll come to me. I can protect you. And her."

Will nods like it's obvious. 

…

Hannibal had a plan in motion. He always does.

And he wanted the Grahams.

He knew that they were attached at the hip, practically an extension of the other. So in order to gain their trust, he'd have to break them apart. 

But he knew he could always get them back together once they were his.

So, getting under Will's skin was the first step.

And it was too easy.

Hannibal was beginning to spin his little web.

Now, to get Will's wife.

…

"Y/N, may I speak with you?" Hannibal asked the biologist.

She looked up from her microscope in the lab, "Hannibal? You're the last person I expected to see. I'm pleased, don't get me wrong."

He smiled, "I understand. I'm just worried about you."

"Me?" She scoffs lightly, "Why are you worried for me?"

He steps up to her, letting his voice drop, "Has Will ever… laid his hands on you?"

She blinked, "What?"

"Has he hurt you?"

Y/N stepped away from his in suspicion. "No. Will would never. Why are you pointing fingers, Hannibal?"

Hannibal sighs as sets his blazer over a chair. "I'm worried that he's become unstable."

She nods, "He is but he's getting better. That doesn't put me at risk."

His eyebrow raised, "It doesn't?"

Suddenly, she wasn't so sure.

"No, it… Will… he… um… Hannibal, I don't understand."

He steps a bit closer now, their faces inches apart, "If he lays a hand on you, or hurts you in any way, I want to be the first to know. I would never let him touch you."

She tilts her head, "Hannib-"

"-No more. I need a promise, Y/N."

She shakes her head, "It won't happen."

He reaches forward and brushes hair behind her ear, "Your promise, Graham."

"I promise?"

He nods, "Good girl."

And with that, he grabs his jacket and leaves.

…

Now, the Grahams were avoiding each other. 

Neither wanted to talk out their recent feelings with the psychiatrist. 

And Hannibal could not be more pleased. 

Both came practically crawling to him.

And he welcomed them with feigned surprise and open arms.

…

A few months and many manipulative talks later, he had them trained exactly how he wanted them.

Hannibal came home and set his bag down gently, "Y/N?" His voice rang out.

She floated down the stairs happily, "You're home early!"

He smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist, "I wanted to see you two as quickly as I could."

Will rounded the corner, "Oh. I didn't hear you come in, Hannibal."

Hannibal's smile only grew, "When you read, you're in another world, dear Will."

The two share a gently kiss. 

Will pulls Y/N away from Hannibal's arms to wrap his own around the girl.

"I've been thinking," Hannibal says. He states it as if it's a new thought, and not one he had planned since the day he met the pair, "I feel a bit left out. You're both the Grahams."

Will places a kiss on the woman's neck and then looks up at Hannibal, "Oh, did you want to be a Graham, too, Hannibal? We can make that happen."

"No," Hannibal said with a smirk as he stared at the beautiful couple in front of him- the couple that lived in his home, ate his dinners he created, and slept beside him every night. The couple that belonged to him. "I believe the Lecters are more elegant. Don't you, darling?" He looks at Y/N.

Her lips pull into a line and she looks up at Will, "The Lecters? Will?"

Will was already beaming, "The Lecters. I've never been more sure of anything in my life, Hannibal."

Hannibal smiled.

…

He had spun his web slowly and meticulously, paying attention to every detail. 

And the two little bugs known as the Grahams had landed right in it unknowingly.

After all, the spider was very charming.

.....................................................

[shalomniscient]

"...what are you doing?"

the moment she speaks, you freeze, locking up like a startled doe. your eyes are blown wide, almost saucers, and the expression on your face is one she's familiar with—that of a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

though, rather than any particular cookie jar, your hands and by extension arms, and torso, and the rest of you is adorned in her clothing. her coat is a size too big on your narrower shoulders, not quite as broad as her own, and her sleeves reach beyond your wrists, and yet despite the ill-fit she cannot help but think one simple thing: you look utterly adorable.

her blatant staring has somewhat the opposite effect, though. you shuffle awkwardly on your feet, fiddling with the cuffs of her coat. a dusting of pink settles on your cheeks like mist, and you pointedly do not meet her eyes.

"i was, ah... just, y'know..."

her dear, eloquent wife fumbling over her words. arlecchino considers, briefly, exploding. but that would most definitely ruin the moment, so she instead takes a step forward, head tilted in curiousity, her lips quirked up in an amused line. her dark hand reaches out to rest on your hip, thumb brushing over the jut of the bone.

"trying on my clothes?" she offers. you flush a little deeper.

"...yes."

she hums at that, her other hand rising to move a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. you'd gotten a haircut recently, the shortest your hair has ever been. it goes without saying that she quite likes it, but that's because she likes everything about you. "has your own closet begun to bore you?"

you duck your head at her touch, still embarrassed at being caught so red handed. "not— exactly..."

"mm, is that so?. may i ask, then, why you have decided to conduct this little raid?" her tone is low, but gentle—a meandering river, with depth only measured in her fondness for you. she sees the words tangle on your tongue, and it takes a gentle squeeze of her hand on your hip for you to speak with a defeated sigh.

"i just— wanted to try out something new, i suppose," you mumble, leaning forward to rest your head on her shoulder. "i've been wondering how it would feel like. to dress like you, i mean."

arlecchino makes a quiet, considering noise. "are you no longer fond of your current wardrobe?"

"a little," you admit. your hands fiddle with the waistband of her pants—it's nothing suggestive, more a nervous tic of yours. you always need to do something with your hands when you're nervous, and so she takes them in her own, running warm thumbs over your knuckles. "are you disappointed?"

she snorts. "disappointed? whatever for?"

your mouth works, opening and closing as you flounder for an answer. it is silly, arlecchino thinks, that you would ever think she would be disappointed that you'd chose to do as you please with your own appearance. for all the clothes in the world, silks and satins and cottons and corduroy, the singular thing she finds loveliest on you has always been happiness.

she draws your hands up to her lips, and kisses the glittering ring on your finger. "my dear, it matters so very little to me how you choose to adorn yourself. i did not wed you nor love you based on something so superfluous. you could wear anything you desire—dresses, skirts, shirts, suits, or perhaps nothing at all—"

"oh, i'm sure you'd like that—"

she shushes you with an amused click of her tongue. "naturally, but let me finish. what matters most to me is that you are content—in whatever form that may take. so no, i am not disappointed. do not ever think such again."

it takes you a while to process her little speech, but then you go soft in her arms, and she knows she's hit the mark. it sends a little surge of pride through her, to know that she knows you so well, and as she holds you close she presses a kiss to your temple.

"i love you," you say into her shoulder, words muffled but loud enough for her to hear. she hums at that, letting her hands trail down from where they were languidly running up and down your spine to instead rest conspicuously on your ass.

"i love you too, dearest. i shall make an appointment at chioriya tomorrow for a suit. as darling as you look right now, i'm afraid my trousers do very little for your assets."

your only response to that is a long-suffering groan, and she chuckles, the sound low and rich. she shamelessly pats your ass in consolation.

"now get on the bed, sweet thing. i'd much prefer to undress you now."

when you get your suit tailored the next day, you specify a high collar despite the fontainian weather. chiori only gives you an exhausted, unimpressed look before getting to work and in a corner of the store, arlecchino innocently sips her tea.

[savvymantis]

Heyo I’m so stupidly excited someone writes for the rescuebots. Do you have any headcanons of the four main bots being smitten with a human s/o? Just before dating, like their inner thoughts and acts to try and make it subtle or get it across?(you can ignore this if you wish, I love your writing either way!)

Oh So Smitten

Chase:

Chase is soft for you, but it can be hard to see sometimes. He doesn't act too different around you, but there's an obvious need to be around you that he carries whenever you're near. He lingers near you, minding his business but ready to be your helper should there be anything you need. And if that thing is just a conversation? He has many conversation starters saved up for such an occasion.

It needs to be said that while Chase doesn't act too different around you, he does act different around others. Both his team and Charlie have to hear about you near constantly. Chase has a lot memorized, trying his best to parse through his own feelings and what your own might be. He also wants to try and woo you, if possible, so he discusses his plans at length with his other, taking them as serious as a rescue.

Heatwave gets sick of it quick, but Boulder and Blades find it romantic enough that they do their best to keep up with Chase's intricate plans to show himself as a good partner for you. They even offer their own ideas for gifts to give you, but be careful. Chase cannot cook. He can, however, suss out the perfect gift based on everything you have ever said. Just don't be too put off by what he says as he gives them to you; he's still practicing with Blades on making his compliments more flattering instead of sounding like he's studying you like a bug.

Heatwave:

Heatwave is smitten, but you would never know. If you never hung out around him, that is. Heatwave likes to think he's got a good lid on his innermost emotions, but it's not hard to see how he relaxes whenever you're around. His voice softens, his posture slouches, and he smiles far more than he does whenever you're away. It's easy to notice, if you know what you're looking for. Everyone else has noticed, at least.

Given Heatwave's tendency to be, well, grumpy, it's easy to tease him about his crush. And tease his team does. Boulder coos and swoons over how in love with you Heatwave is, while Blades talks on about spring weddings and saying yes to dresses. Chase is more practical, showing off his relationship and dating self help books, trying to get Heatwave to do what they suggest. Heatwave doesn't, instead shouting at his fellow bots until they scurry off snickering.

What they don't see is his own plans, written down on a datapad he keeps on hand constantly. They're not very extensive or detailed, just small notes on things you like or activities you'd might enjoy. Heatwave is confident enough in himself to be okay without every detail being written down, and he knows you'll have fun together, whatever happens.

Boulder:

Boulder is the most laid back of all the other bots, and thus he's the only one that is really hard to guess where his feelings lie with you. He's adoring and sweet to everyone, always interested and curious of humanity. It takes the family and even the other Rescue Bots a while to realize his interest in you is more than just platonic, and that's only after they discover carefully drawn sketches of your profile surrounded by hearts in his habisuite.

Any teasing is to no avail, for Boulder isn't ashamed of his feelings. He understands that they're as natural as can be, and you're lovely, so why would he be ashamed? Teasing thus turns into encouragement to confess, and it's there where Boulder hesitates. While he's assured of his own feelings, yours are less known, and it's not confirmed you'd date a bot, much less him. Luckily, his team is nosy helpful, and figure out that you wouldn't mind a big, strong, handsome bot as a partner

With more confidence in his chances with you, Boulder steps up his game. He brings you flowers and drawings of the natural wildlife around the island, which eventually evolves into those sketches of you being shyly passed along whenever you're hanging out alone together. He compliments you too, so sweet that it makes you blush, which he wants to capture on canvas one day. If you're agreeable.

Blades:

Blades is the most obvious about his crush, which surprises no one. He's bashful and chatty at the same time, wanting to talk to you about everything, but also so shy that his face plate seems permanently stained blue. His rotors flutter a lot too, sometimes taking his pedes right off the ground when you make him flustered or excited. It's extremely obvious, but also extremely cute, so you don't mind.

It's easy to tease Blades about his crush, since he frantically denies it like you can hear him from across the island. Still, since he's a little hopeless and a little too reliant on movie tropes, the team does their best to help him along. And that goes about as well as you would expect, so not very well. While everything seems to fall apart, their attempts at nonchalant dates are nonetheless very fun for you, especially when they end with you in Blades' arms as he flees some danger.

Movie nights are a must, but also a way for you to add you own romantic opinions for Blades to hear. He points out courting rituals to you, eager to hear your ideas, and keeps them in mind as he grows more determined to woo you. Each date he tries to casually spring on you gets better and better, until you're both practically dating without anyone even saying anything.

[the-colourful-witch]

Times are a-changing...

Hello everyone,

I hope you're all doing well and that April has been good to you :) Today, I have some important updates.

First, let's talk about the elephant in the room. JKR and her bigotry. To be completely honest, I was unaware of how far her hatred towards the Trans (and in extension the LGBTQ+) community goes. I knew enough not to support her financially, but the extent of her evil was, until recently, something vague in the distance. By now, we're all aware of how much of her fortune she has been donating to this so-called feminist organisation 'For Women Schotland', and how they have succeeded in legally redefining the term woman to be the sex you've been assigned at birth. Meaning; if you have a vagina, you're a woman. What a load of shit.

Technically, transgender people are still protected by the discrimination laws in the UK. Still, now they can be denied access to certain 'women-only' places, like changing rooms, public toilets, domestic violence shelters, hospital wards and more. If that's what a government calls protection, then they need a good, firm shaking. How can you be so ignorant to believe that you're capable of keeping people safe if you're turning them into people who don't fit in, who are other? The consequences are enormous. I'm very scared for everyone affected by this new ruling. This is one more step towards our descent into far-right, fascist politics, and it is wrong...

There has been a lot of talk in the fandom community about what it means to still be in the Harry Potter fandom, whether that means you support J.K. Rowling or not, if you can still call yourself an ally, etc. It is... very difficult to make up my mind about the issue. I don't agree that not being able to let go of Harry Potter is immature or weak. There are things in life we can love, and that doesn't mean we're bad for enjoying them. It sparks the age-old debate of art v/s artist... something that has been on my mind for a long time now, especially because of JKR. I believe we can do both. We can hate the artist and still enjoy what they've created. However, we do not get to stick our fingers in our ears and sing lalala. We have to look the problems in the eye and speak up. It's good to feel uncomfortable. It is good to be torn and to feel guilty. It means you're human. It means you have a conscience. If the goals of this fandom is to take this made-up world and make it our own, more inclusive, more tolerant world, then we should do it with conviction. Wasn't that the point all along? Isn't that what fandom is? Filling in the gaps, changing the story for better or worse, but making it ours.

We live in a world that gets scarier by the day. Our phones try to numb us, and our leaders install fear in our hearts and make us feel inferior. But this is not true. We have more power than we are made to think. There will always be strength in community and in beliefs. I believe art has the power to change minds and thus the world. So, our art will be our weapon in the war against bigotry. Empathy is our biggest strength.

I want to use my art to make people happy, and yes, Harry Potter is a part of that, but it won't be forever. For me, Harry Potter has always been a story to fall back on when I needed a pick-me-up, and these past two years, I have been sharing that with you. It warms my heart whenever someone tells me my art makes them feel like a kid again, and that makes me feel truly privileged. It is important to me that everyone feels like they have a place in this little world, in this community. In our little space, you'll always be safe, you'll be accepted. Be yourself, I wouldn't want it any other way.

We get to spin the story to fit our modern beliefs, and to make sure everyone feels included and safe in this online space. I understand why people are stepping away from contributing to this fandom. I seriously considered the same thing, and I don't blame anyone for doing it. At first, I thought there were two options: step away or keep going. I've chosen to create a third option: Keep going, but doing it my way.

I have always been able to put my joy and passion into my art. It's imperfect, and I'm still learning every day, but it's mine. I hope, if you want, you can find a little joy in it as well. It would be my honour <3 There are a few things that are going to change:

My social media channels will still be called The Colourful Witch, but they will feature a wider range of art. This will include traditional, personal art, fan art from other stories, paintings, clay work, collage, etc. I won't limit myself to just the Wizarding World anymore; I want to share more of my own artistry here. Only my Tumblr will remain a WW blog, because I feel like this space suits that really well. It's a fandom platform, more than any other platform :) The core of my work has always been playfulness and exploration of different topics and styles. I still want to keep doing that, because I feel I've grown a lot while posting my character art online, and I'm amazed by the support and enthusiasm I've found here. Thank you for that, you're truly the best! <3

The Owl Post Club will be shut down. There is definitely a possibility of continuing the club in the future, but I can't promise that right now. I'm afraid I simply can't financially support the club, and thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has been a part of it. You're the best, most supportive people I have had the pleasure of sending mail to! If there are any postcards you'd still like to collect or get an extra copy of, you can find them in my shop. Or shoot me a message and I can help you with any questions or requests :)

I will be spending less time on social media, to focus on my art practice and health. I've gotten a little too addicted to scrolling, so it will be good for me to take a step back. Expect fewer updates for the foreseeable future.

If you've made it this far, hi! I hope we can all keep creating art and find a little bit of sunshine in the shadow of a big and scary world.

Sincerely, Fleur (a.k.a. The Colourful Witch)

[thatguywrites]

a lil while ago i was wondering why nobody was sending me requests only to discover that i still had requests closed in my bio so you're not alone in inbox mishaps 😅

perhaps drivers + wheelchair user!reader? ideally oscar w whoever else + whatever you think of!

Grid with Wheelchair user Boyfriend

Piastri, Sainz, Leclerc

A/N: Vinnie! Ty 😂 I'm terrible at figuring out tumblr settings

Drabbles

Oscar Piastri:

When you and Oscar first meet in a Café in Australia, it's because he tripped on his own feet when he first saw you, and spilled his coffee all over you.

He then spent over an hour talking about anything he could think of with you, just to keep you at that table with him; to be able to keep looking in your eyes.

Your future meetings went a lot like this too, Oscar taking you to new restaurants, or movie theaters, everytime doing extensive research to make sure that your experience would be exactly the same as his. If there was ever a hint of ableism, he would be ready to fight tooth and nail for you, or just go home if that's what you'd prefer.

When you first meet his family, you were delighted to see that they had a newly installed ramp to ensure that you would be able to enter their house and join them for dinner, Oscar and his mom having moved all the furniture to also give you a clear path throughout the house.

After many months of dating, you and Oscar decided that it was time to come out to the public as well, with no better place to do it than Oscar's home race. Oscar was in a frenzy, trying to make sure that all the entrances and exits in McLaren were accessible, and that you would be comfortable.

Carlos Sainz:

When you and Carlos first met through a mutual friend, he was so determined to score a date with you, that he spent the entire time ignoring your friends, focused on you. He offered to push your chair when you got ice cream so that you could eat while moving with the group, he went along the ramps with you even while others took the stairs, and always defaulted to talking with you every second of the day.

You soon learned that Carlos was always like this. Even one on one, he was as aware of your needs as his own. As he toured you around Madrid, you noticed that all the places you went were accessible, and welcoming.

When you met his family, they treated you like his past girlfriends, they paid no mind to the fact that you were a guy, or your disability, they simply welcomed you in, and fed you. You had a feeling Carlos gave them a talk on how to act beforehand, but nonetheless his family welcomed you in with open arms.

The two of you decided to come out at a Real Madrid game, where neither of you had pressure to perform or work, and could just enjoy yourselves in a public event. Pictures circulated endlessly of Carlos looking live-struck at you while you watched the game, and of both of your hands interlinked between the seats.

Charles Leclerc:

When Charles learned he was going to have a new engineer, he wasn't overjoyed. When he learned it was going to be you, he suddenly and unexplainably found a new pep in his step. During preseason testing, when he first had your voice in his ear, he found you a touch distracting. Your calm soothing voice made him want to curl up in your lap, not drive! Charles' sub par performance attracted Ferarri's attention, who then told him to spend more time with you outside of work, to try and get a bond going.

When the two of you came back a few days later, Charles followed your directions much better, it seems like he may have gotten some practice in...

When it comes to dates, Charlie much prefers to stay in with you, staying curled up with you in bed, or laying in the couch watching movies. He basically sees work as dates too, so when possible, he'll prioritize nights in. No need to worry about accessibility, or outfits, or reservations, just cuddles.

When you met Charles' mom, she instantly fell in love with you as well. She began chiding Charles for not bringing 'a gentleman like this' over sooner, and piled her homemade dishes onto your plate.

The two of you came out at Charles' home grand prix, kissing as you entered the paddock, and as Charles entered the car. There was some backlash as people weren't the biggest fans of Charles dating his coworker, or a man, or a disabled man... but Charles didn't have a shit about that and had to be sternly talked to by multiple PR officers to not curse out a ton of people online.

Taglist: (Comment or DM to be added)

@koalapastries @justaf1girl @spoonfulofmilo @lokisen

[ginnsbaker]

Bulletproof (9/10)

Part Summary: Leaning in, her lips hover just inches from yours, the warmth of her breath mingling with yours. “Tell me,” she urges softly, “that I'm not the only one drowning in this.” Instead of telling her, you show her.

Chapter word count: 3.9k+ | Tags: Smut (18+ only), Resolved Sexual Tension, F*cking finally | Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Author's Note: The plot here has gone out the window. Enjoy!

Next Part | Series Masterlist

-

It’s late when Wanda returns to the makeshift home you’ve shared together for the past week. The floorboards groan a bit under her feet, even though each of her steps are light and calculated. Before she even gets to the bedroom, she hears your snores. It's soft, but there's a certain comfort in knowing you're just a room away. As she stops by the door, she smiles, thinking about how these small moments mean everything to her.

At the Avengers compound, things were, well, fancy. High-tech rooms, polished floors, and everything she needed, just a button click away. But it always felt more like she was at work, clocking in and out, than actually living there. It was all so... neat. Too neat.

But this place—it's different. The mismatched chairs, the odd draft from that one window that doesn't shut quite right, and that weird stain on the living room rug they can't seem to get rid of. It's messy, but it feels real. It feels like home.

And of course, there’s the other fact that she knows you’re here, waiting for her to come home.

Wanda eases into the bedroom with a soft tread, careful not to disturb what she believes is your deep sleep. There's a tired, yet hopeful glint in her eyes. She'd been out, and she did meet with Steve like she told you, but he wasn’t expecting her eventual return this morning. He scolded her—along with her accomplice, Vision—for disappearing without a word, but he eventually understood how much Wanda cared about your safety to abandon her duty and break the protocol. While he didn't revoke her suspension, he did lengthen it. This extension, ironically, freed her from the confines of the compound, allowing her to remain by your side without any official obligations holding her back.

She has news, potentially game-changing information, and she's eager to share it with you. But seeing your slumbering form, now's not the time.

She delicately sits on the edge of the bed, taking off her shoes and preparing for rest. Gazing at you, she's taken in by your soft snoring, the slight frown that occasionally appears on your brow, and the tranquility of your face—unburdened by the recent revelations of your past. She can't help but trace the curve of your cheek with her fingers, no longer unable to control herself from touching you.

Noticing the covers that have slid down, she carefully pulls them up, ensuring they sit snugly around your shoulders. She leans in, hesitating for just a split second, before softly pressing her lips to your forehead. 

“I miss you,” she murmurs. “Every moment, every day. I wish you could remember me. All of me.”

With those heartfelt pleas, Wanda sinks down beside you, hoping that perhaps, in dreams, you might find fragments of who you used to be, of what she meant to you.

-

…and in dreams, you do find a semblance of it.

The sound emanates from Wanda, who is deeply entrenched in another dream. It’s evident from her restless movements and the soft moans escaping her lips that it's intense, and again, not entirely innocent. The sensations she’s feeling in her dream seem to ripple out, wrapping around you too—even in sleep.

A pulsating energy begins to stir you from your own slumber. Your senses heighten, and on the brink of intense sensations, you claw your way to consciousness. 

Your eyes fly open, pupils dilating rapidly in the dim light. Cold sweat dampens your forehead, and your chest rises and falls at an erratic pace. The vivid images of you and Wanda, intimate and passionate, flood your mind, refusing to fade. You swallow hard, trying to push away the remnants of the dream, the warmth it evoked, and the very real longing it has stirred within you.

Pulling the sheets tighter around your body, you try to regulate your breathing. You turn to Wanda, her cheeks stained with a deep blush, her lips slightly parted. Taking a deep breath, you gently nudge her, whispering her name. She blinks, her deep-set eyes clouded with remnants of her dream, and it takes her a moment to focus on you.

Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing uneven. “I... I'm sorry,” she mutters under her breath, recognizing what’s happening again.

“So this happens often?” you ask, deliberately choosing your words, attempting to steady your racing heart and the electric buzz between your legs.

She wavers, taking a moment to collect herself before nodding slowly. You notice her squeezing her thighs together, and you try to pull your attention away from that.

Wanda takes a deep, shaky breath. “We were supposed to talk about it, you know? About what's happening, about what we're feeling... about how much we mean to each other. But then the attack happened, and…”

The silence that follows her confession is thick, but not uncomfortable. It feels like the stillness before the dawn, an in-between moment, pregnant with possibilities.

“How do you feel about me?” you finally ask. Now that your eyes have adjusted to the dark, you can make out her silhouette and the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she attempts to steady her breathing.

Gathering her courage, she finally looks up at you, her eyes a storm of emotions. “I like you. No, it's deeper than that. I yearn for you. But it feels... inappropriate, wrong even, to act on those feelings when you don't remember any of it. It feels like I'm taking advantage of you.

“You're not you. I mean, you're you, but... it doesn't feel right to be close to you, knowing that to you, I'm just a stranger.”

Instinctively, you move closer to her, lifting her chin gently with your fingers, urging her eyes to meet yours.

“You're no stranger to me,” you whisper to her.

It’s true. You may not remember the minor details about Wanda, but you do remember the essentials. You know she cares for you, that she’s spent months protecting you and watching over you. You know she would have let you live a simple, ordinary life if not for the resurgence of your powers and the looming threats accompanying them. You know she’d put your best interests before her own; she's proven that in the short time since you two were reintroduced.

You attempt to pull your fingers away but Wanda ensnares them, guiding you to cradle her cheek. Your breath hitches as you sense the goosebumps forming along the slope of her neck. Almost magnetically, your fingers drift over her skin, feeling her erratic pulse. 

Wanda's eyes, a deep pool of want, lock onto yours. “Do you feel that?” she murmurs, her voice tinged with both trepidation and longing.

Without waiting for your reply, she closes the distance, her fingers lightly grazing your jawline. Her touch sends shivers down your spine. Leaning in, her lips hover just inches from yours, the warmth of her breath mingling with yours.

“Tell me,” she urges softly, “That I'm not the only one drowning in this.”

Instead of telling her, you show her.

With the lightest of touches, you draw her closer, letting your lips brush against hers in a whisper-soft kiss. Your hands find their way to her waist, pulling her close, while her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of your neck, deepening the kiss. Wanda releases a breath against your lips, and you seize the opportunity, letting your tongue probe past her luscious lips. Her soft moan vibrates against your mouth, urging you to pull her closer, your hand pressing gently yet insistently against her cheek.

Wanda's fingers begin to dance down your collarbone, her lips momentarily leaving yours to trail featherlight kisses along the column of your neck. Each kiss sends rousing jolts down your spine, your skin burning wherever her lips touch.

When Wanda's hands reach the hem of your sleep shirt, she breaks away from your neck, her eyes seeking permission in yours. “Can I...?” she asks, her fingers playing tentatively with the edge of the fabric.

You nod, suddenly breathless. “Yes.”

With that affirmation, she carefully lifts the shirt over your head, her eyes darkening to a point that there’s no longer any green in them. 

It’s just pure, concentrated desire that pools there.

Her gaze flits across every inch of your now-exposed upper body, taking in every detail as though it's the first time she's seen you this way. She herself hesitates for only a moment before she slips out of her own shirt, revealing her own sculpted figure. There's a vulnerability in the way she bares herself, as if trusting you with a part of her she doesn't show many.

Your eyes skim over every detail that you can study, the heat in your groin intensifying at each discovery that they find. And then Wanda’s hands travel lower, reaching the waistband of your shorts. She hesitates for a moment, her fingers fumbling slightly with the material. The blush on her cheeks deepens, realizing she's almost crossed another boundary without asking.

“Is this...?” she trails off, glancing up at you in embarrassment.

Your heart warms to her thoughtfulness, but your mounting impatience soon overshadows your gratitude for it. “Wanda,” you murmur, leaning in to capture her earlobe gently between your teeth before whispering, “You can take off anything... or everything, if you wish.”

Wanda doesn’t waste any time after that.

Her fingers are nimble yet tremble slightly, their expedition deliberate and slow, as they trace along the waistband of your shorts, then dip beneath it, teasing the edge of your underwear. Her cool fingertips hit your skin, sending shivers down your spine as she slowly pulls the last piece of your clothing down your hips. Wanda's gaze is fixated, pupils impossibly dilating more when she notes the evidence of your want, a damp trail that marks the fabric. It clings momentarily before she manages to pull it free, the sight making her bite her lower lip. Her fingers trace the curve of your hips, the softness of your inner thighs.

 “Y/N...” She looks up from where she's crouched by your feet, her eyes searching yours for permission, for guidance, for a map of where to go next.

Your entire body tingles with anticipation; every single touch, every single glance from her, sends a shock wave straight to your core.

“Wanda,” you find yourself begging, “Please... touch me.”

She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Touch you? Like this?” The pads of her thumb trace patterns over your thighs, never reaching the place you ache for most, but close enough to make you squirm with desperation.

Your frustration mounts, a whimper escaping your lips, “No, deeper... there.” The confession makes your cheeks burn, but your pride is swallowed by the overwhelming need for her.

Wanda chuckles darkly, her hot breath fanning over your sensitized skin. “Say it,” she murmurs, fingers hovering, tantalizingly close but not quite there. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

You gasp, arching towards her, trying to close the distance, but she's swift, holding you just out of reach. “Wanda, please... I… I need your mouth. Please, please.”

There’s a pause, a moment where the world seems to stand still, and then her lips descend. The touch is light at first, teasing, testing, but then it deepens, becoming more insistent. The sensation of her mouth on you is unlike anything else—it's exhilarating, all-consuming. Your fingers tangle in her hair, guiding her, urging her on.

Wanda relishes in the power she holds, drawing out every moan, every shiver, and every gasp. She's just as lost in the moment, just as consumed by the fire that rages between you two. She can’t help but berate herself for delaying this, for going so long without having you this way, for being so stupid thinking for the longest time that you don’t want her the way she wants you.

You taste better than any dream she’s had of you. She’s growing addicted with every swipe of her tongue; she wants more. She wants everything. And if possible she wants it all the time. 

The feeling of her mouth against you, combined with her own need evident in the way she's grinding down on the bed, makes your head spin. “Wanda…” you gasp, voice thick with want, “Fuck, you're so good at this.” The crass words roll off your tongue, unfiltered, raw, and honest. Every pull, every tease, has you on edge, gasping, holding onto the bedsheets for dear life.

For a fleeting second, you wonder how many others have known her touch before you. Jealousy flares within, but it's quickly consumed by a wave of throbbing want as she intensifies her ministrations.

Her muffled groan against you sends another jolt of pleasure straight to your core, and the movement of her hips against the bed is testament to her own growing need. But she doesn’t let up, even when you try to pull away, worried about how powerful the building pressure inside you is becoming.

Wanda only pulls back for a moment, to look up at you, her eyes dark with desire. “Give it to me,” she breathes, voice dripping with want. “I want to taste you. Every drop. I want you to mark me, to make me yours.”

That’s all it takes. A final lap of her tongue pushes you over the edge. And as you come undone under her touch, under her mouth, you call out her name, a broken chant of pleasure and surrender. Wanda drinks you in, savoring the taste, the feel of you, the very essence of your pleasure. Her own arousal remains unattended, but she doesn't seem to mind, lost as she is in the act of giving, in the heady satisfaction of having brought you to such heights. 

“Come here,” you murmur. Your fingers brush through her hair, guiding her back up to your eye level. There's a stunned pause as you take in the vision before you. Your aftermath paints her lips and chin, making her look sinfully debauched, a marked contrast to the innocent glint still residing in her eyes. 

Without a second thought, you pull her into a searing kiss. It's a gentle, tender exploration, which is surprising considering how explicit their previous actions were. You trace your tongue over her chin, cleaning the remnants of your release. The combined taste of yourself on her skin elicits another soft moan from your lips, a sound echoed by Wanda.

Pulling back slightly, Wanda's eyes meet yours. They hold a depth of emotion, gratitude, reverence, and an untamed desire. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice sweet and ironically innocent, her eyelashes casting feathery shadows against her flushed cheeks.

Your cheeks warm at her words, a blush spreading down to your heaving chest. “Wanda,” you laugh faintly, “It's me who should be thanking you.”

But she merely offers a soft, radiant smile, laying her head in the crook of your neck. She nestles her face under your chin, her breath tickling your skin. The beat of your heart thuds loudly in your chest, a rhythm that lulls her into quietude.

You allow her to rest for a few minutes, simply content at holding her like this. But soon, you feel her wetness dripping against your thighs, sparking a fervor within you, and you're consumed with the urge to give her the same heady pleasure she'd gifted you with, to mark her as irrevocably as she's marked you.

Shifting subtly, you maneuver yourself from beneath Wanda, reversing your positions. With a gentle but determined push, she's beneath you, her hair splayed out against the pillow, eyes shimmering with anticipation. You lean in, allowing the heat of your breath to tease the shell of her ear. “My turn now,” you whisper.

Wanda's hands, previously resting idly by her sides, now grip the sheets, awaiting your next move. 

Your hands roam over her body, tracing every crease, every inch of skin that you've longed to touch. Wanda arches into your exploration, her moans growing louder with each teasing caress. You lean down, capturing her lips in a heated kiss, allowing your tongue to dip back into her mouth, tasting remnants of yourself. 

Moving from her lips, you leave a trail of soft kisses along her jaw, down her neck, and to the swell of her breasts. Your hands deftly unclasp her bra, releasing her to your hungry gaze. You take a moment to admire her, drinking in the sight of her flushed skin, her dusky, hardened nipples. Leaning down, you take one of them into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, earning a sharp gasp from her.

As you lavish attention on her breasts, one hand slides down her body, ghosting across the subtle swell of her stomach and then slipping between her thighs. The slickness that meets your fingers stirs your own desires again, and you can't help but murmur, “God, Wanda, you're so fucking wet. All for me?”

Her face flushes, but her voice is husky when she responds, “Only for you. Always for you.”

It’s all the confirmation you need. 

You hurriedly hook your fingers under the edge of her soaked underwear, tugging it down and discarding it to the side. Her hips buck into your touch, seeking more, and you give it to her, slipping two fingers inside her. The sensation of her tightness, her warmth, makes you groan aloud. “So fucking tight,” you whisper in her ear, feeling her clench around you as you thrust in and out. 

Her breath hitches, eyes glazed with lust as she moans, “Don't stop, Y/N. Please. I need more. I need you.”

Your fingers skillfully dance across her sensitive skin, exploring every inch and fold. Using a gentle circling motion, you focus on her most responsive spot, feeling her reactions and adjusting accordingly. You set a steady tempo, plunging deeper while keeping a rhythmic pace. All the while, your lips remain locked with hers, drowning out her escalating moans. As the pressure builds, her voice rises with each stroke, “Right there! Oh, fuck!”

You can feel her nearing her peak, her body coiling with tension. “Come for me, Wanda,” you utter the command in a low voice. You capture her lips once again, muffling her cries as she tumbles over the edge, her climax washing over her. You ride her through it, prolonging her pleasure until she's left a trembling, sated mess beneath you.

But you're not finished. Not by a long shot.

Wanda's eyes flutter open, slightly glazed from her recent orgasm, assuming that you'd simply come up to cuddle. But she's taken by surprise as you begin your descent, tracing your fingertips lightly over the soft skin of her abdomen, drawing goosebumps in their wake.

She takes in a sharp breath as you gently spread her legs wider, baring her entirely to your gaze. The sight before you is tantalizing—her glistening arousal, her puffed up lips, her clit beckoning, and the trimmed patch of hair that adds to her allure. She’s so beautiful. You can't resist; your mouth practically aches to taste her.

“Y/N,” Wanda breathes.

You glance up at her, locking eyes as you lower your mouth to her, the tip of your tongue barely brushing against her. The taste that greets you is both citrusy and slightly salty, and it has you instantly craving for more. Each lap makes you realize just how addicting she is, her unique flavor imprinted on your tongue, driving you to explore further, deeper. Wanda’s hips jerk reflexively, chasing more contact. Teasingly, you draw slow circles around her clit, drinking in every whimper and moan that spills from her lips. 

You spread her open further, revealing every part of her to your ravenous gaze. The darker, tighter entrance catches your attention, and without hesitation, you press a gentle kiss there, relishing the gasp it elicits from her. With a smirk, you drag your tongue from that entrance all the way up to her clenching pussy, letting it flutter against her entrance and then up to the underside of her engorged clit.

“Fuck, Y/N!” she groans, her hands flying to clutch at the sheets, her body undulating with pleasure.

You can't help but chuckle at her response, but the sound is muffled by her wetness, by the intoxicating taste of her arousal. You're consumed by it, by her, and the sounds she's making. “You taste so fucking good,” you murmur wetly against her.

Her thighs tremble around your head, her breathing ragged. “Please,” she whines, dragging the word out, “Don't stop. I need... I need to come.”

You revel in the music of her pleas, the increasingly incoherent babble as you push her closer and closer to the edge. As you slide three fingers inside her, you can feel just how wet she is, how ready. The rhythmic squelch of your fingers moving within her is mesmerizing, and her body responds in kind, tightening impossibly around them, begging for more.

Looking up, you're met with the tantalizing view of Wanda, head thrown back, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. That sight alone could bring you to your knees if you weren’t there already.

“I’m so, so close, please, Y/N…”

You wrap your lips around her clit, sucking gently, the vibrations from your moans against her causing her to buck her hips. Each movement, each stroke of your fingers and flick of your tongue, is designed to bring her closer to the precipice.

“Wanda,” you hum against her, sending vibrations straight through her, “Let go. Come for me.”

And then, she breaks.

With a guttural cry, her body convulses, pleasure rolling through her in waves. You don’t stop, not until she’s gently pushing at your head, her body too sensitive to take any more. You start to pull your fingers away, but Wanda catches them, drawing them into her mouth and cleaning them with her tongue. After a moment, you slide closer, capturing her lips in a lingering, tender kiss.

“That was...” she starts, but words seem to fail her.

You simply smile, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “I know,” you whisper, pulling the covers over both of you, trapping the heat between your bodies.

“Are you okay?” you ask. As the afterglow starts to fade, you remember the purple bruises you’ve left all over her breasts. “Was I too rough? I can... I can try to heal those marks if you want.”

Wanda shifts to look at them, her fingers ghosting over each one. “They'll be reminders,” she says with a small smirk, not sounding too bothered.

“I just want you to be comfortable, that's all.”

“And I am,” she assures, snuggling closer to you, letting her eyes drift shut. “Very much so.”

A few minutes pass with only just the faint, slow sound of breathing. You try to shake off a sudden insecurity that edges into your thoughts, but before you know it, her name escapes your lips.

“Wanda?”

She lets out a sleepy, “Hmm?”

“Was this... Was I... everything you expected?” you ask.

There's a brief pause, and then she shifts slightly, looking up at you, her eyes a little clearer despite her drowsiness. A smile forms on her lips, full of warmth and adoration. “Yes,” she whispers back, “And so much more.”

It's uncertain if you'll ever get your memories back. But this new one and the ones you'll make with Wanda make it less daunting to face a future without a past.

[likethexan]

What's your opinion on Hermes in adaptations ? I personally think that, like with other gods, a lot of nuance is often lost.

He's usually just a fun speedy guy in modern vision and we don't really see his status as god of merchants, travels, rhetoric, theft or his role as a psychopomp. It's really a shame, honestly.

He's portrayed as a bit witty, but I'd love to see him more as a trickster god (like in Argos' story), a persuasive talker, a traveler who explores the world and his relationships to mortals and various gods alike.

(like his relationship to youthfulness, being the second youngest Olympian, at odds with Apollo before reaching an agreement, taking care of Pan then Dionysus, some interactions with his mom Maia or his chthonic coworkers, etc...)

Idk I wanted to talk about him a bit instead of complaining about Dionysus for the 100th time this week 🤣. Since Hermes is your favorite god, I thought it'd interest you 😉.

@superkooku thank you for this ask aaaahhhh!!!

Honestly, Hermes as a deity has so many layers of potential when it comes to story writing, and while he is a Certified Happy Go Lucky Extrovert^TM, there are so many aspects of him that aren't just the comedic messenger!!

I could make a list of all the aspects of Hermes I'd personally love to see more in modern media, so here we go:

Hermes' role as the god of thieves and trickery (his darker self, his suave nature, how he killed one of Hera's favorite servants so effortlessly and still remains in her good graces? His caduceus has two snakes- in a dual way representing his slyness along with his role as a protector)

Hermes' role as the god of trade and merchants (you telling me my boy won't be good at haggling prices and owning the market? I need some version of him where he owns the black market or some crazy stuff)

Hermes' role as a psychopomp (and by extension his relationship with his Uncle Hades. What is his relationship with the other chthonic gods? I love what Hades Supergiant did with Hermes/Charon but I long for more! Especially when he's very much there as Persephone's personal escort to and fro the Underworld. Thanatos should not get all the credit for reaping souls and guiding them home. )

Hermes and Maia (extroverted son, introverted mom, so many things we can explore here! How he felt growing up in that cave, his relationship with Arcas who his mother adopted!)

Hermes and Zeus (his aspect of being the god of hospitality!!) (Modern Media might never give us the Zeus-Hermes-Baucis-Philemon adventures but I am still for it always)

Hermes' mental health and depression (+ the bad side of his relationship with his mother and father) (more specifically Lucian Dialogues of the Gods 4, where Hermes states he is the most miserable god in all heaven, working every day and waiting upon Zeus' grander sons from mortal women. Now in my interpretation, Zeus wouldn't be that harsh to Hermes to make him almost like an indentured servant, but reading this dialogue you can really feel his exhaustion from the God of Trade and many other things. We can all relate to the feeling of being brushed off when you're feeling down, and I think this is the least likely aspect of Hermes to be explored since we will be putting him out of the "lucky, carefree" god persona that most put him in)

Hermes and Atlas (going back to Dialogue 4, Hermes mentions being the grandson of Atlas. I find it fascinating bc how does Hermes feel looking at his grandfather? Does he hate his grandfather for siding with Kronos? Does he resent his dad for creating this void for them to not have a relationship? Does he fear that if he steps out of line Zeus could do the same to him? Does he talk to Atlas forced to hold up the sky? Very compelling stuff)

Hermes and Hera (*holds them very tightly* they are the stepmother and stepson duo. Hera can be a certified Apollo-Artemis-Dionysus hater but has almost no hate for Hermes from what I know. There is no retaliation for Argos' death, and we all know Hera can hold a grudge! She milked him once in an obscure myth and that makes him her honorary son alongside Heracles, even appearing to bind Ixion alongside Ares, Hera's biological son. Hermes even makes an effort to deliver all of the invitations to her wedding to Zeus. Sure all of these can be explained by his messenger/servant role, but they seem to have an amicable and fun relationship that most media just writes them down as "Hera hates him" looking at you Blood of Zeus **EDIT: all of these are mostly headcanon-territory, so apologies for that!)

Hermes and Perseus and his role as helper of heroes (his canon bf... people out there shipping Perseus and Medusa when HERMES IS RIGHT. THERE! Perseus is called a beloved of Hermes and I'm sad that people are erasing that in their Perseus retellings. Gifts seem to be a love language for Hermes since he gives him his sandals, sword AND invisibility helm free of charge)

Hermes and Ares / Mercury and Mars (sorry I'm biased the Ares stan in me is coming out forgive me I think Hermes and Ares as a symbiotic relationship is something that can be explored more. The Jar Myth where Hermes saves Ares lets into some of the vulnerabilities Ares has, Lucian Dialogue #1 and the differences with how they view Zeus, war vs diplomacy, both being athletic gods, both being lovers of dogs, and many other things I can pitch for the secret Ares/Hermes fans out there)

Hermes and Dionysus (more modern media of Hermes taking care of his little bro-bro!! To be best buds in the future, that's just so endearing and sweet and we need more interactions between them. Their duality is similar to Ares/Hermes, with the additional madness factor. How would Hermes react to Dionysus' darkest side as his guardian and brother? Also, Hermes would definitely shake up Dionysus' parties. Would they murder together? Maybe. Definitely.)

[kalims]

ㅤbromance

premise. bro... (romantically) also still no context but those who read part one first know

parts. one , two

featuring. malleus, jade

content. gender neutral reader

note. hi... malleus is so silly boo

malleus

bros the type to stare at you fondly as you do whatever, even if it's either you're rambling about something or just quiet. he is, going to stare.

bros the type to insist you go first in wherever, the cafeteria? you first :) what a gentleman

bros the type to observe from a distance if you're locked in a conversation with someone, he doesn't want to eavesdrop but you know... he has fae heritage so his ears pick up on words.

bros the type to get secretly jealous because no one's paid him this much kindness as you and he kinda just wants you to talk to him when you can.

bro understands that he can't stop you from mingling with other people but he can make you his, and him, yours.

bros always in two moods, always interfering to whisk you away for himself, or holding back for your sake.

bros the type to slow down in his steps when he spots you struggling to keep up with his long legs (if you do.) if not he still slows down purposely so you do too because it means he can prolong your time together.

bros the type to offer you a ride if he sees you tired. if you say yes, he just smiles and picks you up without warning. don't argue because he will in fact, not put you down.

bros the type to be grateful for anything you give. a seed? wow he can plant this and the grown life will be a reminder of your thoughtfulness to give him a gift!

bros the type to give you said gifts, that might be simple in your culture but has deep roots to romance in is.

bros the type to be quality time > physical touch kind of guy but he's not that picky, as long as you're with him there's practically nothing that can convey the extension of his love for you.

bros the type to hold himself back because if he doesn't. he's afraid he might scare you off when you hear about just how much he likes you.

bros the type to ramble about lilia about your 'greatness' while the former lets him whilst chuckling. (secretly wishing you goodluck because his darling son is definitely not going to let you off easily.)

bros the type to notice the slightest shift in your mood from your face alone. he notices a lot than he lets on, the poker face when you're angry, the silence when your sad... he has a way of telling whenever you change.

^ and he's not all but forcing you to let your feelings out. if you like to resolve your feelings by your own, he leaves you alone; even if he himself is just about sulking in his room at the dorm all day.

because he knows how important feelings are. he certainly can't fully understand what you're feeling but he knows that his love for you surpasses his constant need of your presence.

bro loves all versions of you, the mad you, the 'no one can see me like this' you, or whatever version of you that you think is embarrassing. but his favorite you? (hehe yuu) it's the happy you.

so he'll always strive for your content-ness. he knows that life is too short to be sad all the time, even if your happiness could be the cost of his, (e.g going somewhere you want but he dislikes) he's had a long time to be happy.

but he's really the happiest when you are :)

bros the type to go: "oh that reminds me of them," and everyone is SO tired like.. malleus we're in the middle of a magishift match stop daydreaming -probably leona but I made it less mean :P

bros the type to hand out his food when he sees you eyeing it, "want to try?" he says. then just gives you the entire thing when u end up liking it and buys like 2 more for you. (stop him or he will keep coming back to buy it.)

he isn't even sad nor upset he gave away his food!

bros the type to look for you whenever it's time to dance with your partner on the floor. pop, rap, those ballroom music, whatever he's dragging you out there.

don't even think about declining cause who can resist him when he's looking so happy to get to you first? (despite many other people wanting to dance with him.)

bros the type to think of you when he's playing the piano so whatever composition he's performing sounds like absolute heaven. (you'd be surprised at how much he'd learn midst his long years.)

bros music just sounds like the definition of a fairy tale, slowburn love. (ahem, he's so lana del rey coded but I'm listening to happiness is a butterfly as I write this so you can paint the pic :))

bros the type to prefer quality time over physical touch, in terms of receiving you don't really have to do anything for him. sure the reassurance of your affection is nice but you know what's even better? just the notion that you're here.

even if, bros the type to melt at any type of caress you give him. rubbing circles over his palm? actually that's his thing but he can forgive you. ruffling his hair at the top of his head? well. not much dare but aren't you an endearing human! he's chuckling but there's there's unmistakable relaxation of his tense shoulders.

in short he's just practically decomposing to putty in your arms :P

bros the type to give acts of service as a form of his affection. oh your dorm fell apart again as usual? don't even ask cause if he witnesses a part of the roof falling off, just quietly waves his hand then it's fixed and better than before! 

bros the type to silently act out acts that just make your life easier overall, don't complain cause the most you'll get is him toning it down. he will NOT stop.

bros the type to watch himself in your eyes. if anything if you're both talking, the way he's looking into your eyes isn't because he's inclined to do so due to his polite manners. there's just something about the fact that he can see every single color in your iris, or maybe he can see the lovestruck expression etched on his face.

bros the type to laugh at every joke you make, even though he has to be told you're making a joke at all. imagine this, you make a joke, he just stares at you quite confused. you tell him it's a joke and he lets out the most delayed laugh you've ever heard, it's been 15 whole seconds after you spoke it and he's chortling.

it doesn't matter if he understands or not!! he'll never make you feel like your jokes are unfunny, or didn't lighten up his mood cause your existence alone makes him feel like he's practically shining.

bros the type to immediately slide his blazer off his shoulders the moment he notices you're starting to shiver, showing signs of feeling cold. don't worry ;) no need to return, he'll most likely forget and sebek would get him a new one in record speed. strangely his memory is all refreshed and full of pride when he sees it in your room.. have you perhaps been wearing it after that incident..?

jade

bros the type to show his affection through random gifts, he may be an acts of service lad but you know he just had to send you that (totally not poisonous, hopefully?) mushroom.

bro 'drops by to check on the healthcare of the mushrooms he gifted you' cause that's the only sole reason he's there… casually stays there for hours end despite him looking at it for 2 minutes and calling it a day.

bro just HAS to be the one serving your table if you happen to drop by monstro lounge for a quick meal or just there to enjoy the sights it has to offer. he was temporarily busy and someone already took your order? too bad. promptly tells the student to help someone else 'he's got it'

^ MY GUY JUST TRYNA EARN SOME MADOL.

if the definition of 'serving a dear, special customer' was even handing you your food that's been suspiciously accompanied by freebies.. then bros doing it cause apparently since you were a regular he figured it's a token of appreciation. 

you're not sure if azul is even aware he's just casually handing out freebies on his own accord.

bros the type to just sit right in front you, watch you eat, without saying anything at all with a rather eery smile but there's nothing new about that. you're just questioning why he's just.. there. in your table instead of serving the lounge.

bro said "it is fine, business is slow today.." even though if you side eye to the left you could spot nearly all tables full and 3 residents scrambling to balance all of them alone..

literally just stares at you but bro answers if you ever start a conversion or ask a question to fill the silence. you'd think he'd leave you alone after you're finished but he PERSONALLY brings it to the kitchen and 'sees you out because that's what they do for all customers.'

that's a lie btw.

bros difference of 'that look' is absolutely nothing compared to the 'plotting something bad' face which is just slightly narrowed eyes, and a pointy wide smile. so you aren't sure if you should shit your pants (99% would cause you wouldn't know he'd be giving you the look)

bros the type to dust off the dirt in your clothes but you literally just dusted it off two minutes before you two met.

bro makes the most subtle excuses to touch you, AKA including the dusting off the non-existent dirt. he's smooth with it though.

bros the type to completely be focused on you, passing by a really loud classroom while you're talking? eyes are still on you even if the professor mentions fungus.

^ (50/50 tbh).

bros the type to let you play with his hair, particularly the black strands. hide it in his hat, clip it, braid it, add pins on it.. heck, he's genuinely elated you're giving that part attention from your day.

bonus points if bro just stares intently in your eyes as you're working, it's harder to not look back than styling the portion. it's hard cause his eyes are pretty intense, not to mention mesmerizing with the heterochromia.

bros the type to let you pick out music that plays in monstro lounge. azul always questions him why he heard the customers wondering about why CPR was playing but he always shrugs and says it's a new marketing trick.

not bro but when jade is in a bad mood floyd always uses you to 'cure him' and what do you know, he is acting all better but the problem is jade is still not talking to floyd but talking to you… sibling fight tingz.

not bro once again but when jade is intent on making a decision that gives azul a headache and heart attack simultaneously, the man nearly ALWAYS tells you to "wonder out loud about how yellow would not fit the carpet of the lounge." 

bros the type to give you mushrooms instead of flowers. traditional gifts for first dates who?

bros the type to give you a MUSHROOM PLUSHIE instead of a teddy bear 😭 like jade we know you love breaking stereotypicals but please enough… you can't forget the mushroom ballpen he lended you.

bro has one of the most prominent presence in the entirety of NRC but is amused when you're totally unaware of him creeping up behind you. thinks it's funny and cute, and keeps jumpscaring you at random periods of the day.

hey don't look at him like that, he just wanted to talk to you.. didn't mean to scare you.. 😊

note. commissioned piece :D don't repost anywhere else. (plz commission me I'm broke)